


Six Thousand Years (Plus a few more)

by Sourboi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon Compliant, Historical Accuracy, Historical References, M/M, Missing Scene, Post-Canon, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-22 10:46:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22414948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sourboi/pseuds/Sourboi
Summary: A Nice and Accurate Account of the Demon Crowley and the Principality Aziraphale, from the Beginning until Well Past the End
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 41
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	Six Thousand Years (Plus a few more)

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__Thanks so much to the amazing Jen and her art, which can be found here, and to my tireless beta, Zsofia. I honestly couldn't have done this without you both. Much love!_ _

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_Eden, Saturday, October 27, 2:34 P.M. 4004 B.C. (aka the Seventh Day)_

“I owe you one,” said the demon, when the storm had raged itself into a drizzle, and the clouds once again parted.

“Don’t mention it,” said the angel. “Please.”

_———————————————_

_Day 2_

Aziraphale stared out the window. His entire body sat still, except for his hands, which fluttered about with frantic energy.

“It’s alright,” Crowley assured him. Still, he couldn’t help but glance outside for himself. “They’ve left us alone for good. Come on, have a cuppa.”

“Thank you, love.” Aziraphale’s gaze didn’t leave the window until he realized Crowley was staring at him. “Sorry, have I said something?”

“No.” Crowley startled out of his thoughts. “No, not at all.” A corner of his mouth twitched up in a smile and slowly, imperceptibly, Aziraphale relaxed.

_———————————————_

_Day 13_

“Do you think they’ll ever try again?” Aziraphale asked mildly, watching a would-be customer with vigilance as they browsed. 

“I hope not,” Crowley replied. “To be honest, I’ve been thinking about taking a _very_ long nap, and I don’t need anybody spoiling it.”

“Really? How long were you planning?”

“Oh, I dunno. Maybe fifty years?”

Aziraphale made a noise like he was disappointed and trying to hide it. “That’s an awfully long time, you know.”

“Yeah. Maybe just an hour or two, then. Could I crash on your couch?”

“If you must.” His words sounded resigned to the fact, but his voice said he couldn’t have been happier. 

_———————————————_

_Day 27_

Crowley flopped down on the couch in the most dramatic way possible, head landing squarely over Aziraphale’s book.

“Really, dear. I’m trying to read.”

“What’s even in those dusty old books that’s so wonderful? You must’ve read them all by now.”

“Even so, there’s something new to discover with each re-reading. Some of these books I’ve gone through a dozen times, and they still surprise me.”

Aziraphale pulled his book out from under Crowley’s hair with a soft grunt and adjusted his glasses. Crowley pocketed his, golden eyes staring up into Aziraphale’s blue. Earth met sky. “Read to me, then,” he demanded.

“I thought you didn’t ‘do books’.”

“I’m not doing it. You are.”

The demon settled in comfortably, making it clear he wasn’t going to leave. After a moment, Aziraphale rested a hand in Crowley’s smoldering hair and settled back himself. Crowley’s golden eyes drifted closed to the cushion of Aziraphale’s voice.

“ _My guide and I came on that hidden road / to make our way back into the bright world; / and with no care for any rest, we climbed- / he first, I following- until I saw, / through a round opening, some of those things / of beauty Heaven bears. It was from there / that we emerged, to see- once more- the stars._ ”

_———————————————_

_Chelsea, England, 1890 A.D._

Angels didn’t typically attend parties. There was no clear policy on it, but they were generally considered sources of sins like lust and drunkenness and frivolity. That said, Aziraphale was not a usual angel, and in his view, parties and social functions were exactly what he needed. A drink or two, good music, and of course, good company. He was in desperate need of the latter these days. It had been almost thirty years since he’d seen Crowley and although he kept trying to assure himself that their brief separation was for the best, that didn’t mean he didn’t sorely miss his company.

Thankfully he’d found a new source of companionship. Oscar Wilde was in no way comparable to Crowley, save perhaps his quick wit, but the time Aziraphale spent with him was just as enjoyable. They spent many evenings discussing everything from literature to morality to the latest gossip, and of course Oscar threw the best functions of anyone in late 19th century Britain. He kept his company close and of an equally sharp mind as himself, and all of his guests were of the highest respect.

“You know, there’s someone I’d like you to meet,” Oscar told him, once all the pleasantries were out of the way. “He has the most lively tongue; I think he shall be a match for even your mind.”

“Really?” Aziraphale replied, interest piqued. “I’d be delighted if you introduced us.”

“Of course, my dear fellow. Tell me,” Oscar said as he led Aziraphale arm-in-arm through the party. Knowing mirth glimmered in his eyes. “Have you ever made the acquaintance of a fellow by the name of Anthony Crowley?”

Aziraphale cleared his throat in a most ungentleman-like manner. “No, I can’t say that I have. A friend of yours?”

“Something to that effect.”

Heat flared in Aziraphale’s cheeks. It took a moment to place the feeling that accompanied them: jealousy. Well. That was new. And rather unbecoming of an angel. 

Just then, they broke through a crowd and Aziraphale found himself face to face with the red-haired, bespeckled demon himself. “Crowley, my good man. I’d like you to meet Aziraphale. He’s a dear friend of mine, and I think you’ll find his conversation just as stimulating as my own.”

“Ah.” Crowley’s face looked like it was attempting to wrestle with itself. “Aziraphale. Pleasure.”

“Oh you were right, Oscar,” Aziraphale said with just a hint of sarcasm. “He’s just as quick as you claimed.”

“I’d wager I’m quick enough for the two of us, annnnd I’m willing to make good on that wager anytime you like.”

Aziraphale didn’t miss the near slip of Crowley’s tongue. Even when he was angry, he still couldn’t help the nickame. _Angel._ It was impossible to tell whether Oscar had caught it too, but he didn’t want to take the chance. “Another time, I’m afraid. I find I’m enjoying myself far too much to stoop to such a level as petty competition.”

“That’s alright. Cowardice suits you much better than your slow attempts at being quick to the cut.” Crowley snipped.

The remark cut Aziraphale to the bone. “I do apologize. Cowards so often find it hard to be anything but. Even when the challenge is worth meeting.”

“Clearly.”

Cold silence radiated out from the pair until finally, mercifully, Oscar stepped in. “Such fascinating conversation! If only I had my quill and parchment. Now, Aziraphale, I’m sure you would love to stay and continue making Crowley’s acquaintance, but Reggie is working on a new piece and you simply must hear this one splendid bit of dialogue!”

Aziraphale allowed himself to be escorted away to better conversations, but his reintroduction with Crowley kept replaying in his mind. He felt like he should have done something differently, like he’d missed a key note and thrown their entire song out of tune. Maybe the fault lay in their argument thirty years prior. Maybe it lay beyond that, a lacking of his own character that he had to resolve if he ever wanted to speak with Crowley again on civil terms. Or maybe the fault of his character was thinking he could ever be friends with a demon in the first place.

“Thank you again for the party. It was lovely.”

“Of course, anytime at all.” 

Aziraphale hesitated at the parlor door. Oscar wasn’t the only gentleman in London who understood Aziraphale’s situation, but he was the only one Aziraphale had ever met with whom he could totally confide in. His quick wit lent itself to more than just engaging prose and pointed dialogue. He was clever in many aspects, and more importantly, he was thoughtful. Aziraphale had never met another man like him, and, in truth, might never again. 

“I must admit, Oscar. I’ve lied to you. I have met Crowley before. We’ve actually known each other for quite some time.”

“Really?” Oscar sipped his tea and did not look at all surprised. “I never would have guessed.”

“Well it’s true,” Aziraphale pushed on, ignoring the obvious nonchalance. “We’re very old…we were…it’s complicated. But we fought, recently, and now…”

“Now you don’t know how to apologize,” Oscar guessed.

“Worse than that; I don’t even know how to explain to him that…” He began to pace. “Oscar, you are a certain kind of fellow.”

Oscar set aside his tea, sensing the shift in mood. “I am.”

“And you understand that some things must be kept discreet, for the good of both parties.”

“I do.”

“Well. Crowley doesn’t. He asked me to entrust him with something… something dangerous. Something that could seriously hurt him, or even kill him. And I care for him, truly I do, but it would be too dangerous for both of us if I were to to give him what he wants. If certain parties discovered us, there would be more than Hell to pay, I’m afraid.”

“I see,” Oscar said.“Do you trust him?” 

Aziraphale answered without hesitation, surprising himself. “Absolutely.”

“Do you love him?”

This time Aziraphale was less quick to answer. “I shouldn’t, but…There are things I can’t—It’s all very complicated for us. I’m not sure I would know, even if I did feel for him that way.”

“But you care for him, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And that scares you.”

“Of course it does! We’ve been…we’ve known each other for so long now. By rights I shouldn’t even be speaking to him, but after all this time I couldn’t imagine life without him in it. And then he goes and asks me for the one thing that _would_ take him away permanently, and just thinking about it…I couldn’t bear it.”

“Then tell him that. He at least has a right to know that you care for him and that you value your…whatever you call it, but that you’re not ready to do what he’s asking you to do. Might never be, in fact.”Aziraphale’s pacing slowed. Oscar continued. “My friend, life is too short to let fear and doubt push away the people you care about.”

Aziraphale stopped in front of the fire place, drinking in its warmth and grounding himself in its light. He cared about Crowley more than he wanted to admit when he shouldn’t have cared about him at all. What had happened? When had things changed? He couldn’t pinpoint the day, the moment, when he’d stopped worrying about being caught with a demon and he’d started worrying about being caught _with_ a demon. It was all so very confusing. And yet, by speaking with Oscar, he gained a small moment of clarity. 

“I understand,” he said. “Or at least, I think I know now what I ought to tell him. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Oscar smiled again, his tall frame lounging back in his chair. “Now that you’ve finished worrying, would you care to share a glass of port with me? I’m afraid all this talk of companionship has made me rather thirsty.”

Aziraphale contemplated the offer. “Well. I suppose one drink wouldn’t hurt.”

Several drinks later, Aziraphale fumbled for his coat and hat in the front hall while a bemused Oscar watched, sipping his glass.

“Thank you again for the lovely party, and for your advice.”

“Of course. Any time at all.”

“And please, Oscar, for your own sake: keep out of trouble.”

Oscar’s eyes twinkled. “My friend, when have I ever done otherwise?” 

_———————————————_

_Day 32_

“You never told me you had a Wilde collection!” Crowley brandished the book as if it were evidence to a crime. Aziraphale glanced up from his work, stiffening. 

“Be careful with that! It’s over a hundred years old!” He took the book from Crowley’s outstretched hand with much more care and set it aside. The poems within were first edition, but even more precious was the letter tucked under the cover, and the signature on the front page. “I know you don’t care much for books, but I’d appreciate if you didn’t go around manhandling them.”

“But that’s…that’s Oscar Wilde’s poetry!”

“I’m well aware.” An eyebrow raised itself as Aziraphale realized exactly what was happening. For all those years of disregarding literature, only to have found a passion for Wilde. But then of course it would make sense. Anyone who’d met him eventually developed a passion. “I knew you were fond of the man himself, Crowley, but I never thought you’d read any of his works. Really, I’m almost impressed.”

“Well of course I was fond of him.” Crowley rolled his eyes. “So you were you, if I remember right. I think you probably spent more time at his apartments than your bookshop.”

“Of course I did; the man was a literary genius! To hear him read…and don’t pretend you never came calling yourself.”

“Wait, hang on. I thought you and Oscar…”

Aziraphale blushed. “No. We were close, but not that close. Besides, I was under the impression that you and he were…”

“No!” 

“But I saw you at that party! You were dancing together…the way he looked at you…”

“If you must know,” Crowley muttered, “I was trying to make you jealous.”

“Jealous of what?” Aziraphale said, doing a very poor job of pretending he didn’t know exactly what Crowley was referring to. “You are perfectly free to make your own decisions, as am I, and I hold no ill will against you for it.”

“Really?” Crowley teased. “Is that why you told him he was better off with Douglas than with…how did you put it? ‘A scoundrel like that fellow Crowley’.”

Aziraphale scrambled for a defense. “You _were_ a scoundrel. Still are.”

“But I’m your scoundrel. And don’t you forget it.”

“I won’t.” Aziraphale smiled and traced a hand over the leather binding of the book. “I do miss him though. He was such a bright, clever man, before…”

“That wasn’t my fault.”

“I never said it was. Only it’s a shame, what happened to him. It’s true, what they say, isn’t it? Only the good die young.”

“Not always.” Crowley laid a hand over Aziraphale’s. “He talked about you quite a lot, you know.”

“Really?”

“Mm. He said you had excellent taste in literature.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “I’m sure he did.”

“Yes, he did. And he also said I was lucky to have a companion like you.”

“Really? Now _that_ I find hard to believe.”

_———————————————_

_Alexandria, 48 B.C._

The fires had been put out hours ago, but smoke still rose from the library’s bones. Aziraphale picked through the beams and ashes, one of only a handful of people trying to salvage anything at all. A scrap of paper here, a charred manuscript there. But so much had been turned to grey ash that stained Aziraphale’s fingers. Not that he cared about such earthly things, of course, but it seemed a shame to lose so much knowledge. Such a bitter shame.

An ember, hiding under a singed leather cover, bit into the palm of Aziraphale’s hand and he bit back a swear. The sharp pain ebbed into a throb, worming its way down like thirsty roots. Still calling up curses under his tongue, he climbed back down the rubble to a fountain. The cool water washed away the ash and the pain. He rubbed his thumb over the burn and then it was gone. Good as new. If only he could do the same to the building behind him. 

He stayed at the fountain, splashing water on his face and bracing himself to go back to the hard, dirty, hopeless work. Dark red waves swam into view in the pool’s reflection. 

“What do you want?” Aziraphale asked, refusing to look up.

“I just… Are you alright?” Crowley answered lamely, as if he’d just thought of the excuse on the spot. 

“I’m fine. No thanks to you.”

Although his hands were already clean, always clean, Aziraphale thrust them back in the water. Torchlight reflected off the ripples, looking like ichor bleeding from his fingers. Crowley watched him with concern and questions but didn’t say anything. 

“Was it worth it?” Aziraphale asked bitterly. “Nearly two thousand years of work, destroyed? First you bestow knowledge, and then you take it away at a whim. I should expect nothing less from the infamous Snake of Eden.”

“I’m not…it wasn’t me. I tried to stop them, but they had orders. I mean. So did I, but…I’m sorry.”

“And what good does that do? What good is caring when you’re just going to destroy everything anyway?” Aziraphale retorted. He pulled his hands from the water and leaned against the side. Water dripped from his fingers, darkening the stone.

“I told you, it wasn’t me.”

“It might as well have been!” Hairline cracks spread along the edge of the fountain where he gripped it. “If you just stand by and watch, you’re just as bad as whoever set the blaze.”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed into slits. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

“Oh, is it?”

“Yeah, it is. If I remember correctly, it was you standing by while all those people drowned clawing at the side of the ark.”

The cracks grew wider under Aziraphale’s dripping hands. “I never…that wasn’t me. I didn’t want…”

“Exactly.”

Aziraphale forced himself to look up then. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should’ve done something to help those people. But if I was truly so wrong then, what does that make you now?”

Crowley didn’t have an answer, and Aziraphale didn’t wait for one. He took the scraps he’d gathered and walked away. Away from the library, away from the city, and away from the demon who watched him leave with something akin to regret written on his face like so many burning words.

_———————————————_

_London, 1666 A.D._

“Do you have to go?” Crowley asked, sounding like a petulant child. 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I’ll be back before you know it. And I’m sure you’ll have your hands full keeping London balanced while I’m gone, yes?”

Crowley grumbled. Aziraphale pressed harder. “Don’t forget; one miracle for every temptation.”

“Yes I know, I’m the one who came up with the Arrangement in the first place.”

“Then I’m sure you’ll have no trouble keeping it.” Aziraphale paused at the door to Crowley’s flat. It was sparsely decorated, fit more as a tomb than a home, but Crowley had insisted one of them ought to have a permanent residence in London. Besides, he liked having somewhere to take his naps. A child indeed. 

“And Crowley,” Aziraphale added. “Please don’t go falling asleep on me again. Going to the theatre is a dreadful bore without you. Not to mention all the paperwork I end up doing on your end.”

Crowley grinned, wide and serpentine. “Wouldn’t dream of it, angel.”

“Oh, and if someone from St. Peter’s drops by—“

“Yes, I know. You’ve gone to get some more books for the collection. Now go, or you’re going to miss your ship.”

Aziraphale paused one last time. He felt as though he should say something more, but he couldn’t figure out for the life of him what it might be. So he smiled instead, and lifted a hand in goodbye. 

His assignment took longer than he expected; most of the summer, in fact. Not that he wasn’t ungrateful for it. The nasty business with the Plague at the start of the year still lingered in his mind, and he was sure that the summer heat would only make the stifling closeness of the city all the more unbearable. In contest, the sea provided the windblown smell of salt and an endless mirror of sky and water. When they weren’t battling the Dutch, Aziraphale almost enjoyed himself.

That said, his excursion couldn’t end soon enough. The first hints of autumn rose to greet him as he stepped off the gangplank and back into London. It was just as crowded and chaotic as ever, but something else lingered in the air. The smell of ash, and a certain desperation in the eyes of beggars on the streets. _We’ve lost our home to the fire_ , they said. _We’ve lost everything. We have nowhere to go. Please, won’t you help us_? Aziraphale pulled as many coins from the air as he dared and hurried past them down the damp, soot-covered streets.

Crowley’s flat was still intact, as was the note Crowley had left. _Gone to Italy. Be back soon. Please water the orchid_. Some part of Aziraphale warmed at the last bit— that flower had to be centuries old, now, but Crowley had apparently kept it in excellent condition. But the larger part of Aziraphale couldn’t shake the remnants of fire. He could see its aftermath, now, as he walked down the streets. The number of homeless people had increased nearly tenfold, and everything that wasn’t burnt down completely was singed black and dusted grey with ash. Aziraphale pushed past all of it, hoping and bracing himself.

The cathedral was completely burned out, a hollow shell of what it once was. The crypts below had collapsed and then burned as well. Some of it, Aziraphale gathered from the other scholars, had been saved in nearby collages, but they were still cataloguing the survivors. As it stood now, the vast majority of the collection had been turned to smoke and embers. Aziraphale stood for a long time before the husk of the church. Only a few beams remained, the barest sign of a structure. Not even the stained glass windows had been spared. Aziraphale closed his eyes and imaged the cathedral as it used to be. He remembered its birth, the great stone arches laid painstakingly across the sky. And now he was here to see its death. He sighed, opening his eyes again. Even if much of the collection had been destroyed, his job wasn’t over yet. Bidding a last, fond farewell, Aziraphale turned his back to the blackened remains and got to work.

_———————————————_

_London, 1731 A.D._

He dreamed the library was burning. The city at war, Roman soldiers marching through the streets, and the library burning, always burning. Crowley couldn’t remember when the dream had become real, but there he was again, standing in his nightclothes outside a burning library while people rushed back and forth with buckets of water that could’ve been drops in the ocean for all the good they did. Books, manuscripts, pages came flying out the window, competing with the sparks in a race to the ground. A few students came stumbling out the door, stained black with ash and trying their best to cough up their lungs.

“Is there anyone else inside?” One of the headmasters demanded as they fled the building. 

One of them paused long enough to nod. “A few of the assistants,” he said raspingly. “And the deputy librarian. They’re still in there, trying to save the books.”

Foolish humans. Stupid, brave, foolhardy mortals. Crowley grimaced and turned back to the flames. Pages rained down around him like snow. White snow. No. He wouldn’t. Except Aziraphale would, because he was stupid and foolhardy and cared more about those books than any mortal would. 

Crowley rushed to the student, who had subsided into a coughing fit that threatened to knock him to his knees. Crowley miracled away the ash in the boys lungs and shook him by the shoulders. “Where’s Aziraphale? Is he still inside? Answer me!”

The fact that he was shaking the boy into a stupor probably wasn’t helping, but then again, he didn’t care. “Aziraphale?” the boy stammered.

“Yes! Blonde hair, blue eyes, too blasted clever for his own good?”

“That sounds like Professor Fell.”

“Yes, fine, Professor Fell, but where is he?”

Crowley was about to start another round of shaking when the building did it for him. Three floors collapsed in on themselves, sending flames shooting out the window after the last smoldering bits of paper. Forgetting about the student, Crowley staggered towards the library. Shouts for more water swirled around them, but all the water in the world wouldn’t matter now. Aziraphale’s name caught in his throat; the thought of him being gone stuck it to the roof of his mouth and refused to let it leave. Crowley closed his eyes and let the name build up in his chest.

Amidst the shouting and roar of the fire, Crowley dimly registered a voice. Just the one. “Help!” It called. “We need some help over here! Professor Fell, are you alright?”

Crowley’s head snapped up. Stumbling out of the burning entrance was a small group of students, singed and ragged but alive, and in their midst was an older man. Cinders had turned his white hair nearly grey, but Crowley would’ve recognized those blue eyes anywhere. “Aziraphale!” The name ripped from his mouth and he was glad to be rid of it. Amidst the men rushing to help, he found Aziraphale’s arm and led him away. Aziraphale’s breathing sounded harsh, choked by soot, but he was alive. Well and truly alive. 

“I promise it wasn’t my fault.”

Aziraphale laughed, rough and breathy and a little bitter. “I know.”

“I am sorry, though. About the books.”

“I know.” 

Crowley guided Aziraphale to a bench and summoned a damp rag that he used to start wiping the ash from him his face. Aziraphale closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “I think,” he said at last. “I think it’s high time I started my own collection. One that will be significantly more fireproof.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” 

_———————————————_

_Day 46_

Something was burning. The bookshop; it was on fire. Where was Aziraphale? Crowley shouted for him, but smoke choked his throat, coated his lungs. Fire lapped at his feet. Everything else burned. He had to find his angel, get them both out of there. The burning smell turned to sulfur. He took a step, trying to call out. The floor burned away under him and Crowley fell.

He hit the concrete floor face first and felt his sunglasses crack. The heat went away; the burning smell stayed. “Aziraphale!” He shouted, panic muffled by the floor.

The angel appeared in the doorway, looking rumpled. A stained pink apron wrapped around his front. “Crowley! What have you done, are you alright?” A second later Aziraphale was crouched over him. His blue eyes reminded Crowley of a pond someone had thrown a rock into; rippling, agitated.

Crowley sat up and got his bearings. He recognized grey concrete, green leaves, dark red couch. His apartment. “I’m alright,” he muttered, waving away Aziraphale’s worrying hands. “Just fell off the couch is all.”

“I heard you shouting…”

“Yeah, tends to happen when you fall off a couch.”

Aziraphale’s brows knitted together. “I heard you shouting my name.” Crowley focused intently at the plant to his left. Maybe later he’d yell at it. “If you don’t want to talk, I understand,” Aziraphale was saying. “But I’m here.”

Somehow, Crowley managed to find his angel’s arm. The sleeves had been rolled up. Flour and batter covered the front of his apron. His bowtie hung loosely around his neck. The concern written on his face made Crowley’s stomach tie itself in knots. He looked away. “I dreamt I was falling,” he said. “That I fell, and I couldn’t find you.”

“I’m here now.” Aziraphale put his arm around Crowley’s shoulders, pulled him close, sheltered him with an invisible wing.

_———————————————_

_Day 52_

“Let me see your wings.”

Aziraphale looked up from his books, glasses balanced precariously on the tip of his nose. “What?”

“Let me see your wings.”

“Whatever for?”

“I just want to see them.” 

The battle of wills ended quickly with Aziraphale’s surrender. He stood, adjusted his waistcoat, and then his wings shook themselves into existence. A downy feather or two floated to the floor as he adjusted them much in the same way he did his clothes; fussing with them, shifting them into a comfortable position. But no amount of meddling could hide the bare truth.

“I knew it!” Crowley cried triumphantly. “You haven’t been grooming your wings!”

Aziraphale managed to look both guilty and irritated. “I hardly think it matters. I rarely bring them into the physical plane anymore, and it’s not as though you groom yours any more than I do.”

“I happen to take great care of my wings.” Crowley shuffled his out just to prove his point. The glossy black feathers caught the light and turned into iridescent shades of every color. His wings might’ve been an unwelcome reminder of his position and how he’d gotten there, but they were also a point of pride for him, not unlike his plants.

“Sit,” Crowley ordered, pointing at the couch. Aziraphale obeyed, though not without a huff and a good stern look. Another feather loosed itself from his wings. To be fair, Aziraphale’s wings weren’t that bad. They weren’t infested with parasites or anything. But they certainly looked shabby compared to Crowley’s. When Aziraphale finished settling himself, Crowley sat down behind him. His own wings spread out lazily over the cushions. 

“What are you—” Aziraphale’s question was answered before he finished asking when Crowley buried his fingers in Aziraphale’s left wing. Aziraphale’s whole body shuddered, and Crowley’s deft fingers hesitated. 

“Sorry, is this okay?”

“It’s fine,” Aziraphale murmured. “It’s wonderful.”

Crowley continued, straightening primaries and combing the downy underside. Although they looked disheveled, they were incredibly soft. It felt like shoving his hand inside a pillow. Crowley relished the process, and he could tell Aziraphale did too, if those little twitches and murmurers were anything to go by. He was almost sorry when he finally finished.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, tucking his wings away and turning to face Crowley. “If you’d ever like me to return the favor…”

Someday, he knew, he’d take Aziraphale up on his offer. For now, though, he was happy enough running his fingers over a stray feather that had landed in his lap and relishing in the softness of it. “Don’t mention it, angel,” he said, and grinned.

_———————————————_

  
  


_Day 62_

“I never did apologize, did I?”

“Apologize for what?”

“For in the bandstand. Saying that I…for saying everything. You do know that I didn’t mean it, don’t you? It’s only...” Aziraphale’s fingers traced the spine of a book. He looked conflicted, almost at war with himself as he had been back then. 

“It’s only. I don’t know. I was scared of what they’d do if we failed, or even worse if we succeeded. And I suppose I’d been fooling myself for so long that my side had Earth’s best interests at heart, I didn’t want to believe they were truly capable of ending everything. I took out all my fears on you, and it wasn’t fair.”

“No,” Crowley agreed. Aziraphale’s eyes stayed fixed on the bookshelf, tracing every title. “But I suppose I wasn’t fair either.”

“Don’t be ridiculous; you were right, in the end. I was being foolish.”

“ _I was right_?” Crowley, at any other time, might’ve held those words over Aziraphale’s perfect haloed head. Now he just shook his own. “I wanted to run away, and that wouldn’t have solved anything.”

“But at least you had the sense to see what I couldn’t. Everyone was too wrapped up in the war to care about anything else. I should’ve listened to you from the beginning. Maybe if I had, I wouldn’t have had to share a body with a middle-aged woman for the better part of a day.”

“I thought you looked quite nice as a middle-aged woman.”

“Thank you.” A brief smile touched the corners of Aziraphale’s mouth. “But that’s beside the point. You were right about them. I was just too stubborn to see it.”

“When are you not?”

“Please, dear, I’m trying to make a heartfelt apology. I want you to know how truly sorry I am for the way I treated you, and that I see now how wrong I was.”

Crowley reached out to cup Aziraphale’s cheek. They were still warming to the idea of being left alone, being allowed to touch each other without fear of everything. This time, though, he needed to. He took a breath, mustering words from deep down and imbuing them with as much meaning as he could. “I forgive you.”

Aziraphale moved past Crowley’s hand, wrapping his arms tightly around Crowley’s slim torso. He buried his face in the crook of Crowley’s neck, and the skin there quickly became damp and warm. Crowley returned the embrace, running one hand up and down Aziraphale’s back. His vest was incredibly soft and velvety despite the worn out patches, or maybe because of them. Aziraphale’s shoulders shook slightly under Crowley’s touch. They stood like that for a long time. A few minutes at least, maybe a few hours. Crowley wasn’t sure. He only let go when the shaking finally subsided, and Aziraphale pulled away. His eyes looked red and puffy, like he’d been crying, which was impossible because Crowley’s shirt was completely dry. 

“I forgive you,” Crowley continued, “just like I have every time since the first day we met. I don’t pretend to understand you half the bloody time, but I do know you care, and that’s enough for me.”

Aziraphale nodded. His lips formed the words _thank you_ , though no sound came out. Crowley looped an arm over the Angel’s shoulders, steadying him. “Now. I think a momentous occasion such as this deserves a drink. Several drinks, really. And a toast.”

Aziraphale sniffed and looked both annoyed and confused. “I hardly think me apologizing counts as a momentous occasion.”

“Not that,” Crowley scoffed. “This is far more singular. Today marks the day when the high and mighty Principality Aziraphale admitted that _I_ was _right_.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake!” Aziraphale did indeed look up at the ceiling as though asking for strength, but the effect was negated by a slowly spreading smile. “You’d better make the most of this, Crowley, because it’s never going to happen again.”

Crowley grinned and led him towards the back room, where a bottle of Aziraphale’s favorite wine and two glasses were already waiting for them. “Oh, I absolutely intend to, angel. This will be a night to remember.”

_———————————————_

_Paris, 1150 A.D._

The weather was perfect, as it had been all week. Crowley recognized Aziraphale’s work all too clearly in the bright sun and pleasant warmth, despite the oncoming autumn. Students and professors dotted the courtyard of the university. This was to be the new center of learning in France. Of course Aziraphale had wanted to make sure it started off on the right foot.

The past few decades had mostly consisted of Crowley releasing his stress in various forms. This most recent round of Crusades had been especially good for that, and when it had finally failed miserably, he’d felt good enough to hitch a ride home with Louis. Just in time for the University’s opening. What a coincidence.

Although the sun felt nice, Crowley kept to the shade of the entryway stairs. He knew he’d have the most luck in the library, but he had absolutely no idea where that was. Even worse, he had no idea what he’d say when he got there. He didn’t blame the angel for being careful, but sometimes he could be so thick headed. It was enough to drive anybody mad. Crowley went up another step and then paused again. Maybe Aziraphale was still upset with him. It would probably be better to leave well enough alone. He’d try again in another decade. Crowley retracted his step. A voice at his back made him whirl around and nearly lose his footing on the stone stairs. A firm hand on his chest stopped him at the last moment, then retreated just as quickly.

“Crowley!” A battle of joy and apprehension played out on Aziraphale’s face. No doubt it was mirrored in Crowley’s own. “What are you doing here?”

“I…I came to find you.” Somehow, he’d never been very good at lying to Aziraphale. He really wished he was better at it.

Aziraphale’s smile finally won out. “I’m glad you did.”

“You are?”

“Of course. I ought to apologize for what I said. I know you face just as many risks as I do; more, perhaps. The worst that could happen to me is falling. But there’s no telling what your side might do to you if they found out what we’d been up to.”

Crowley said something that was neither comprehensible nor elegant. “That’s. I mean. It’s okay. I’m, um. I know you’re not in an easy position, and it’s not fair for me to keep putting you on the spot. So I’m sorry. For that.” He might’ve mumbled that last bit. Nevertheless, it was enough for Aziraphale.

“I forgive you.” At Crowley’s flinch, Aziraphale backpedaled. “That is to say, all is forgiven. Water under the bridge.” A thought occurred to him, and he put his hands behind his back. His smile turned into something Crowley might’ve almost identified as mischievous, mixed in with a little sheepish pride. “That reminds me. I have something for you.”

He brought his previously empty hands forward. In them was a simple earthen jar, filled with soil. A flower sprouted from it, white petals splayed on either side of a red center like wings. “It’s a marsh helleborine orchid,” Aziraphale told him. “They were cultivating them at a monastery I stayed in for a bit on the left bank. I remember how much you talked about the gardens in Babylon, and this one reminded me a bit of you.”

Crowley’s hands accepted the pot automatically. The orchid’s white petals gently waved with the movement on either side of a red centerpiece. It was perfect. So much so that Crowley nearly dropped it. Finally he looked back up at Aziraphale, whose apprehension was making a comeback in his quietly wringing hands. “I don’t have anywhere to put it,” Crowley blurted.

Aziraphale’s face tripped, stumbled, and tried to right itself with only some modicum of success. “Oh,” he said. “Of course. How foolish of me. You’ve only just returned and no doubt you’ll be off again in no time. Well. That’s alright. I’m sure I can find a nice field for it somewhere, or—“

“No!” Crowley really had to get control of his faculties. They seemed to be disobeying him at every turn, even if they were right. “You should keep it.”

“But I really don’t know the first thing about caring for it. It actually took quite a bit of miracling just for me to keep it alive this long. I’m afraid I’d kill it.”

“Then I’ll come by and make sure you don’t.”

“Are you sure?” Aziraphale’s gentle blue eyes searched Crowley’s face. Not for the first time, Crowley noticed how perfectly they matched the sky. He wondered if Aziraphale kept his eyes that way on purpose. Probably not, the bastard.

“Yeah. I can pop in, check up on it, maybe give you some pointers. If that’s alright with you.”

Aziraphale beamed. “You’re welcome anytime, Crowley. Anytime at all.”

_———————————————_

_Day 148_

For the hundredth time, Crowley ran his long fingers over the delicate white flowers blooming on the table. A somehow simultaneously cheery and ominous red bow encircled the pot, with a scrawled card tucked in the side. Aziraphale watched, smiling gently, as his demon searched for any sign of a flaw.

“Come on Crowley,” he finally chided. “We’re going to be late!”

“Do we really have to go? I mean, she’s going to have the baby whether we go to her party or not.”

“Anathema and Newton are our friends, and we already said we’d be there. It would be rude to skip out on them now. Besides, you’ve put all that work into the… what are they called again?”

“Stephanotis. Also known as Madagascar Jasmine. Do you think she’ll like it? I mean, what do you even _give_ to a person having a baby, anyway? They’ve already _got_ the baby. **”**

 **“** The flowers are beautiful, sweetheart. I’m sure she’ll love them.” Aziraphale patted Crowley on the cheek and opened the door. “I don’t suppose I could drive this time?”

“Not a chance in Hell, angel.” Crowley smirked. “Don’t worry, I’ll go slow.”

_———————————————_

_Babylon, 700 B.C._

He had only been there once, but Crawly was sure he’d never find anywhere as beautiful as Eden. Nowhere else was as lush, full of life and innocence and love. Nowhere, it seemed, except perhaps Babylon. The gardens hung around him, boasting broad green leaves and colors the imagination couldn’t even fathom. Water pumps murmured in the background, not unlike the impossible waterfalls that once flowed through the Garden, and kept the air cool despite the burning heat outside. 

Crawly—or maybe not; the name had begun to sour on his tongue— ambled along the paths, letting his admiration for the gardeners and the plants themselves shine. The greenery responded in kind, lifting leaves and branches and petals to the light to create dazzling mosaics. It was only at the edge of the gardens, at a window overlooking the ocean of dunes below, that he paused. For a moment the mist felt like a coming storm, and he thought of a wall, and an angel, and a wing to shelter under until the rain had passed.

_———————————————_

_The Ark, 3004 B.C._

“Crawly!” the angel shouted, pacing the length of the ark’s lowest decks. The ship pitched and rolled in the storm. Animals stamped and howled in their cages, and the angel tripped over his robes several times. “Crawly, I know you’re down here! I saw you sneak in with the other snakes. I _can_ count, you know!” Everything jolted backward, slamming him against the door to the back storage room. “What are you planning, you foul—”

The door swung open mostly of its own volition, with Aziraphale merely clinging to the handle. A single torch in the center of the room illuminated a dozen dirty, tear streaked faces and one yellow-eyed snake coiled around them. One of the children burst into sobs.

“Oh.” Aziraphale said. He looked at the children and the snake. They looked back at him. The storm raged outside, and he thought about all the lives it had already claimed. “Well. I know when I’m beaten.” And then he shut the door.

_———————————————_

_Pompeii, 17 October, 79 A.D._

The sky was falling. Everything smelled of ash and sulfur, and in the pit of his stomach Crowley felt like he was falling all over again. He ran among the stampede, trying to push through and barely keeping himself from being trampled. He could have miracled himself far away by now. He should have, really. But he _couldn’t_ because he’d seen a flash of white hair among the fire and sulfur and goddammit—or someone damn it at least— the idiot was going to get himself killed. 

He paused, pulling himself up onto a statue’s pedestal to look over the mass of terrified eyes. “Aziraphale!” 

The ground shook, the statue rocked, someone grabbed his arm and pulled him sprawling across the street just as the building behind him crumbled, crushing the statue in its wake.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale’s blue eyes seemed like the only piece of sky left against the inky black cinder heavens. She bent over Crowley, undisturbed by the flood of bodies behind her. “Are you alright?” she repeated. Crowley nodded. “Good. Get somewhere safe,” Aziraphale said, and then she stepped into the current of panic and was gone. 

Crowley stared at the space she’d left behind. He imagined blue eyes, blue of the clearest sky, and a field of soft grass, and he left Pompeii far behind. 

_———————————————_

_Day 364_

The soft blindfold threatened to slip down past Crowley’s sunglasses, and he reached up to readjust it. Aziraphale’s equally soft fingers pulled his away. “No peeking.”

“I wasn’t.”

Aziraphale hummed, and Crowley could practically picture the disbelief on his face. “Sneaky serpent. Hold on; we’re almost there.”

“And where is _there_ , exactly?”

“Just a little ways further. Be patient.” Crowley is always patient when it comes to Aziraphale. He’s had over six millennia of practice. Some of it achingly slow, some of it hair-pullingly aggravating, and all of it worth it for Aziraphale’s hand in his. The angel could be leading him straight to a pool of holy water, and Crowley would trust him completely. 

Aziraphale slowed to a stop. His hand dropped Crowley’s. He felt its absence keenly. “Aziraphale,” he whined playfully.

The angel didn’t respond. Crowley cocked his head, listening for a clue to their location. Birds sang in the distance, and the wind rustled leaves over his head. So they were in the countryside. That wasn’t much of a hint; they spent a lot of weekends out in the country. Most of England was made of countryside. All he could discern is that they’re not in London anymore.

“Aziraphale,” he said again. Still no response. A tiny worm of fear squirmed through his lower intestines. He reached out, hoping to find soft velvet, and came up with empty air. The worm tied a neat little bow over his colon. “Hey, what are you—“

Gentle hands removed his blindfold. Crowley blinked in the sudden light, bright even behind his glasses. They stood at the top of a hill overlooking a meadow brimming with wildflowers of every color. Honeysuckle, columbine, marigold, daisies, clover and a dozen others. Above them, the gentle boughs of a middle-aged oak offered shade. Crowley took in the view, turning slowly, and finally found Aziraphale behind him.

He stood by a blanket embroidered with roses. Spread out down the middle were cheeses, salamis, bread, pears, grapes, and a bottle of wine supporting two stout glasses. 

“Whassss” The question strangled itself in Crowley’s throat and came out a mangled mess. 

Aziraphale glanced up to Crowley. A smile hid at the edge of his lips. “I did promise you a picnic.”

Crowley’s mind brought back those words. A plea, a warning. He’d been so caught up in the rejection that he’d almost forgotten the promise that came after. Even then, even when Aziraphale was breaking his heart, he’d still somehow found a way to keep the pieces together. 

Another sound escaped his mouth, halfway between a sob and a laugh. He took Aziraphale’s hands in his own. “Have I ever told you just how much of a bastard you are?”

The smile crept all the way across Aziraphale’s face. His eyes crinkled at the corners. Crowley could swear the very sun couldn’t compete with them. “Not recently.”

“Well you are. You’re the worst, most wonderful bastard I’ve ever had the pleasure to know. You really are.”

Aziraphale’s laugh filled Crowley’s world. “Thank you, my dear. Would you be so kind as to join me?”

Crowley did.

_———————————————_

  
  


_Venice, 1056 A.D._

Aziraphale stepped out of the basilica and breathed in the briny air. He would never understand for the life of him why humans had decided to build a city in the middle of a bay, but he had to give them credit; the scenery was unbeatable. A shadowed figure pulled away from the wall to Aziraphale’s side.

“Hello Crowley,” he said, not even sparing a glance as he took in the view of the plaza and the ocean beyond.

The demon grinned, breaking the grim facade. “Aziraphale. Fancy seeing you here!”

“You mean to tell me that wasn’t you skulking outside the basilica when I arrived four hours ago?”

“No, I’m really not the skulking type.”

“No, of course not. How silly of me.” Aziraphale finally allowed himself to look at Crowley and couldn’t help but smile. “It’s good to see you again.”

“You too, angel. How was Spain?”

“It had its ups and downs. You know how humans can be. I especially enjoyed working with the Jewish philosophers. They have such interesting ideas about God. Makes for excellent conversation. What about you; I heard you went east?”

Crowley disentangled himself with a shrug. “It was alright. Persia’s still full of sand. China was a lot of fun though; I think they went through nearly as many emperors as Rome did in its last days.”

“And you didn’t have anything to do with that?”

“Well. Maybe a little. Oh! Before I forget.” Crowley pulled a sheaf of papers from his robes and offered them to Aziraphale. The pages were covered in kanji and illustrations, but under Aziraphale’s eyes the symbols deciphered themselves into letters, words, sentences. 

“It’s this manuscript I picked up in Japan. _The Tale of Genji_. Kind of a…long form fiction. New thing they’re trying out. Thought you might like it.”

Aziraphale’s fingers traced over the flowing ink, the delicate lines and paint. It was a beautiful piece of work, but even more captivating was the story itself. He looked up, gratitude filling his face. “It’s wonderful. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“No, really, this was very kind of you.”

Crowley scowled. “I said don’t mention it.” Before Aziraphale could even think of what to say, Crowley stormed off, scattering pigeons that would no doubt spread an unfortunate rain over the city. Aziraphale frowned after him, feeling confused and a little hurt and a little bit of something else. When he sought Crowley out the next evening the word ‘kind’ never left his lips, replaced instead by ‘clever’ and ‘troublesome’ and ‘a damned nuisance’, each one said with a fond smile that made Crowley’s grow ever wider. 

_———————————————_

  
  


_Year 2, Day 54_

Crowley’s lips brushed Aziraphale’s as he passed. No matter how many times he did it, the angel’s cheeks still tinged pink. “What are you working on?” Crowley paused, leaning over Aziraphale’s desk.

“It’s a second edition _Paradise Lost_. Don’t get too close; it’s in delicate condition.” 

Crowley obediently pulled back and watched him work. Aziraphale’s fingers weren’t as long as Crowley’s but they were infinitely more careful. They handled each page with intimate delicacy. In some places, his fingers barely touched the paper at all. With all the gentle firmness of a parent leading a child, he removed the leather cover and set it aside. Painstakingly, with glasses perched on the edge of his nose, Aziraphale began repainting the gold etchings that climbed up the book’s spine. Despite the delicate lines, his hand never wavered. Crowley didn’t even realize he’d been leaning in again until Aziraphale coughed politely in his ear.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

Aziraphale smiled. “Would you like to help?”

“I don’t do books.”

“So you’ve said.” 

Crowley perched himself on the arm of the recliner by the desk and contented himself with watching Aziraphale’s hands. For a short time, anyway. “Why don’t you just miracle it fixed?”

“I do, sometimes,” Aziraphale admitted. “When the damage is otherwise unfixable. But I find I quite like the process of repairing by hand. It’s soothing. And satisfying, when the work is as good as new. Like your plants, I suppose. How you take care of them.”

Crowley suspected that the processes were about as similar as fire and water. He didn’t do much gardening around Aziraphale. It was a private thing, almost like a therapy. He didn’t know much about (or frankly trusted) human psychology, but a good shout always made him feel better. His plants on the other hand, probably could’ve used a therapy session themselves. No, Aziraphale’s work couldn’t have been more different.

Bit by bit, the faded and torn spine metamorphosized from old to new. It looked like a miracle in slow motion. Crowley’s fingers ran over the cracked leather of the armchair. “Where did you learn all this?”

“Oh, back in the seventies. The most recent ones, I mean. I met a rather nice professor who’d perfected a new technique for preserving reed paper, and she showed me the basics.”

A question pushed itself forward on Crowley’s lips. “So…how do you do it, then?”

Somehow, Aziraphale understood the meaning underneath Crowley’s question. “Here. Lift those sheets out of the solution- carefully, mind you.”

Angel and demon worked side by side, one coaching the other. And, bit by bit, the book came back together, a miracle under Crowley’s hands. 

_———————————————_

_Rome, 41 AD_

“I heard the library’s being repaired,” Crowley was saying. “Claudius ordered an addition onto the west wing. It’s not as fancy as it used to be, but it’s still standing, anyway.”

Faint laughter rose into the late summer evening air, adding to the aroma of wine and olive trees and too many spices to name. Crowley had always liked the things humans did with fermented fruits. It had taken him a few years to get the hang of getting drunk, but it was a skill he’d been determined to master. Liquid courage, they called it, and for good reason. He drained his cup and before he’d even set it down, it was full again. Crowley reached for another oyster and another subject, but then Aziraphale answered.

“I’m sorry. I was wrong to blame you.”

Crowley agreed by choking on the slimy mollusk.

“That is to say,” Aziraphale continued hurryingly. “I’m aware you were involved. But I understand now, it was out of your hands. You…you weren’t consulted on policy decisions.”

Crowley washed down his oyster with some courage and managed to articulate his reply a little better this time. The worst part was that he understood. He knew the grief losing something and being helpless to reclaim it and the rage that followed. He understood lashing out. Understanding didn’t lessen the pain, but it made forgiving easier. And maybe that wasn’t very hellish of him, but he didn’t become a demon by following the status quo. 

“It’s alright,” he said, to his own surprise. “I mean, not really. But. I get it. And I’m sorry too; I don’t think you’re like any angel I’ve ever met. Course, I’ve only ever met one, but you get the idea.”

“Thank you.” It was phrased almost like a question, as if Aziraphale wasn’t sure whether he was being insulted or not, but a smile crinkled his nose all the same. “I’ll try to live up to that. They’re no angels, but all the same, they’re…”

“Ineffable?” Crowley supplied.

“Unexpected,” Aziraphale answered. That smile flashed across his face, imperceptibly a touch fonder. 

Crowley raised his cup. “Cheers; I’ll drink to that.” And they did.

_———————————————_

_Year 2_

“Do you mind if we took a scenic route?”

Crowley glanced over at his angel and shrugged nonchalantly. It would look more suspicious if he said no, so instead he said, “Sure, why not?”

“Excellent. Make a left here. Careful!” 

Crowley eased up on the gas, smiling. “Going to fast for you?”

“Never.” Aziraphale composed himself and returned the smile.

One hour and a lot of speeding later, worry gnawed at Crowley’s mind. Aziraphale barely had to say the turns before Crowley made them. What if Aziraphale knew what he’d planned and was pulling some kind of elaborate joke? No, that wasn’t his style. And if he _had_ been trying something, Crowley would’ve been able to tell; Zira always got that smug look on his face, like he’d just eaten the last bite of cake. Right now, he just looked, well, angelic. Crowley didn’t realize he was staring until Aziraphale stared back, innocence being pushed aside for mild concern.

“Everything alright?” 

“Mm? Oh, yeah. Lovely. Nature.”

“It _is_ lovely, isn’t it? All the wildflowers are in bloom this time of year.”

“Mm.” The scenery was beautiful, which was exactly why Crowley had picked it.

“Oh! Right here!”

Crowley swerved into the hidden drive that he’d already discovered and parked just around the bend. “Erm. Angel—”

“Alright. I confess; I’ve got a surprise. Close your eyes.”

Crowley obeyed, trying to figure out the best way to break the news to Aziraphale. No good ideas came to mind. The angel opened the door and gently pulled him out of the car. Crowley could feel excitement wafting off him.

“Hang on. Right about here…now open.”

Crowley opened his eyes to a cottage. His cottage. The one he’d had picked out for almost two months. 

“What do you think?” Aziraphale asked proudly. “I discovered it a few weeks ago. I was coming back from a visit with Anathema and I got a tad lost, and I thought this was the path back to town— only it was this. I thought of you, especially those flowers—that _massive_ hydrangea by the front door—and I saw the ‘For Sale’ sign, and, well. Nothing’s finalized yet, but—”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley barely whispered, but Aziraphale stopped dead in his tracks.

“What is it?”

“I’ve…ah…I’ve already bought it. For us.” Crowley swallowed. Aziraphale’s face gave away nothing but faint shock, so Crowley blundered on. “I know you love you bookshop and St. James Park and the Ritz but…well, I thought maybe you and I could summer here sometime. Or winter. Or whenever you like. It’s. Yeah. It’s ours. If you want to, I mean. You don’t have to.”

For one awful moment, Crowley thought he’d done something unforgivable. And then Aziraphale laughed. His eyes screwed up into those crow’s feet he’d given himself, and he laughed. 

Crowley had never heard a more wonderful sound in his life. The relief of not having ruined everything made him chuckle too, just a bit. The chuckle turned into laughter, and then Aziraphale kissed him.

It was so sudden, Crowley wasn’t even sure it had happened. The surprised and embarrassed look on Aziraphale’s face assured him that, in fact it had.

“Did you…?”

“Yes. I did. Did you…was it alright? Am I going too fast?”

In reply, Crowley laughed and kissed him right back. 

_———————————————_

_Year 2 (pt 2)_

“I will warn you, it’s a bit of a—” Crowley winced as the door crashed inwards at Aziraphale’s touch. “Fixer upper.”

Aziraphale took in the dust and cobwebs, the sparse furniture covered in moth-eaten sheets, the cracked windows and the goose that honked indignantly at them before bustling off into the next room. “Oh. Oh my.”

Crowley followed Aziraphale into the cottage. The musty smell of mice wafted past his nose and he just barely resisted the urge to stick out his tongue to taste the air. He’d deal with them later. For now, he watched as Aziraphale inspected the house. “Listen, it’s fine. I can just—“

He raised his fingers to snap just as Aziraphale turned. “Wait!” 

His fingers froze. “What?”

Aziraphale touched the arm of a covered chair, taking in the whole room. “I think…I think I would like to do this the human way.”

“What? With hammers and nails and paint and everything?”

Aziraphale nodded once at the ancient house, as if he were deciding something. “Yes. Hammers and nails and paint and everything.” He caught sight of Crowley’s expression and smiled. His soft hands took Crowley’s. They stood there in the doorway, surrounded by dust and cobwebs and sunlight lighting up Aziraphale’s hair like a halo, and Crowley felt his breath catch in his throat.

“We chose humanity. Together,” Aziraphale said. “I think it’s only fitting that we make our home with them. Like them. Together.”

Crowley gazed at Aziraphale, taking in every detail. His face broke into a smile of its own accord. “Together.” He said quietly. And then, louder. “Yeah. Well alright then; what are we waiting for?” And they rolled up their sleeves and got to work.

_———————————————_

_Athens, 496 A.D._

“You’ve got to admit, it was a bit of an eyesore.”

“Yes, but how on _earth_ did you hide the _entire_ Athena Parthenos? It’s nearly twelve meters tall!”

“With a lot of effort and quite a few tricks up my sleeve. And don’t bother looking, because it’s not there either.”

Aziraphale was circling the conspicuously empty Parthenon like he was expecting to find the massive statue of Athena hiding behind a column and throwing dirty yet impressed looks towards Crowley every chance he got. Crowley caught them all gracefully and added them to the pride of pulling the whole thing off. 

“Trust me, I’m doing the Greeks a favor. I mean, come on. Gold and ivory? They were practically begging for it to be taken.”

“I highly doubt the people of Athens would agree.”

Crowley shook his head. “Nah. They’ve got plenty of fancy statues. Ina few years they’ll probably put up some other, equally ugly monument and forget all about this one.”

Aziraphale, satisfied that the Athena Parthenos was well and truly gone, joined Crowley at the gaping hole that used to be a wall. Far below the acropolis, the city of Athens was slowly rebuilding itself. It had only been a few weeks since the city had been sacked, but already it was getting hard to tell. The Greeks were nothing if not efficient. 

“So that’s it then? You’ve secreted the Athena away to some location only you know about, never to see another living soul again?”

Crowley tilted his head, considering the question and its asker. “Well. If you like it so much, I suppose you could swing by now and then.”

“Swing by? Crowley, there are so many reasons I couldn’t possibly do that that it’d take all day to list them. The least of them being that we’re on opposite sides, and someone would surely notice an angel popping in to pay a visit to a demon.”

Crowley huffed to himself. It had been worth a try, anyway. His resignation had almost solidified when Aziraphale spoke again. “So where, exactly, did you put it? Just for future reference, of course.”

It took every demonic power Crowley possessed to tame his grin into a smirk. “Come on, I’ll show you.” He led the way out of the decimated temple and knew, without looking back, that Aziraphale would follow wherever he went.

_———————————————_

_Pi-Ramesses 1254 B.C._

The night held its breath, as if it could sense what was about to happen. Even the palm trees dared not whisper in the breeze. The people that slept did so restlessly, turning over in their thin beds. Those that didn’t huddled over their fires, clutching the few belongings they had and praying that the lamb’s blood above the door would give them mercy. Beings of light moved through the streets, entering the unmarked homes and leaving again with the quiet sigh of a last breath. One angel in particular left a home with the soul of a babe not a year old. It had been painless, he’d made sure, but only for the child. For the mother, there would be nothing but grief when she woke in the morning. His Light seemed to fill the road, casting long shadows against the houses and the people inside. For a moment, in the shadows, he thought he saw gold eyes. Something welled up in his throat: a protest, a plea to a shadow and nothing more. It came out as a sigh, a breath of his own adding to the hundreds stirring the air, and then he moved on to the next house.

_———————————————_

_Jerusalem, 30 A.D._

He was in pain, and he asked for forgiveness. Not for himself, but for the world. And then he died.

His mother and father wept. His wife wept. All his followers wept. The very earth quaked, and clouds gathered as if the sky itself would shed tears.

A man and a woman stood back from the small group of mourners and did not weep. They said nothing, but mourned him nonetheless. And then, when it was all over, they parted ways without a word.

_Babylon, 427 A.D._

Despite the heat of high midday, the market bloomed with a field of multicolored robes and advertisements shouted from stalls. Aziraphale strolled among the aisles, taking in the stacks of dates and citrons and spices. He was never really hungry, but curiosity had driven him to try food once or twice way back when and so far, he hadn’t been disappointed. His eye caught a particularly nice stack of honeyed figs, and he was halfway to miracling a handful of coins for them when a white figure with broad shoulders and an even broader smile blocked his path.

“Excuse me—Oh! Gabriel! What a pleasant surprise!”

“Yes; I was in the neighborhood delivering some revelations, and I thought I’d check in. How are you holding up?”

“I’m doing splendidly, thank you. The market is always nice this time of year; people come all over to trade all kinds of things. For example, the other day I saw this wonderfully soft cloth that—”

Gabriel cut him off. “Sounds quaint. But how are you otherwise?”

“Otherwise?” Aziraphale’s brow formed a question. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Gabriel leaned in, violet eyes glittering like beetles. “We’ve taken notice of a demon [prowling] in this area. Caused a lot of misery between Rome and Persia. Crawly, I think his name is.”

“A demon? Really?” Aziraphale found himself standing at the foot of a road paved with good intentions, and he knew exactly where it led. It wasn’t too late to turn tail and run back the way he’d come. “I haven’t seen anything of the sort. But I’ll keep a watchful eye out.”

Gabriel clapped Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Excellent! Glad to hear it. And if he turns out to be more trouble than we thought, Raquib is just a prayer away up in Constantinople.”

“Perhaps I’ll pay them a visit.” Perhaps he _would_ . Get his head on straight. Acquainting with demons, _covering_ for them. He’d be Falling before he knew it at this rate. 

“Sounds like a plan. Good luck, Aziraphale. I look forward to hearing about your success in your next report. ”

A bronze pot had caught sun and in the momentary glare, Gabriel disappeared. 

“Thanks,” Aziraphale mutters to the empty air. The gratitude was at least somewhat warranted; he would need all the good luck he could find to get himself out of this mess. The fig vendor shouts his wares with a welcoming voice, but suddenly Aziraphale found he’d lost his nonexistent appetite. He turned and quickly lost himself in the maze of stalls and customers. Between one moment and the next he was somewhere else. An identical market, down to the shouts and sights and smells. But somewhere in the city was another angel. His own kind. Perhaps that’s all he needed; some good company and a break from that dammed, foul, irritatingly charming demon.

_———————————————_

_Somewhere in the Arabian desert, 622 A.D._

The road to Medina is long, hot, dry, and dangerous. The train of people moves slowly, bearing precious water and whatever else they can carry on their backs. There isn’t much chatter; the hot weather dries out their mouths faster than they can form words. 

Two beings, one light and one shadow, mingle in the train. They follow a man who stays at the center and, despite the shimmering waves of heat, smiles and trades stories and laughs. Those around him cluster in and find themselves smiling too. The two beings observe and speculate, as holy beings are wont to do. They also bicker, which is distinctly more human. The argument seems to fluster one of them, which is another, rather human trait. Still, deep down, they enjoy each other’s company, which neither would ever care to admit. They bicker and jibe and occasionally the man looks back with crinkled crows feet eyes and smiles. After all, he knows what angels look like.

_———————————————_

_Cordoba, Spain, 915 A.D._

The hum of half a dozen languages floated like lazy bumblebees through the late Saturday afternoon. Aziraphale could speak each one well enough, and he conversed easily with the guests filling the house and spilling out into the courtyard. The smell of spiced meat and fresh bread and apples dipped in honey added warmth to the cool autumn air, competing with talk of literature and philosophy for his attention. 

Finally he gave in to temptation—just a little one, mind you—and excused himself from a long but admittedly funny story about a Rabbi and an incompetent student. Near the doorway were tables of fruits, breads, pitchers of sweet wine and coffee. Aziraphale helped himself to a little of everything, and a little extra of the honeyed apples.

With a full plate and a warm drink in hand, he prepared himself to return to the party and the end of the story, but a voice floating over the crowd caught his attention. It led him outside to the courtyard, although to call it a yard would have been an understatement. Enclosed within four walls and a ceiling of sky were paths winding through trees and flowers. A small fountain in the middle added the music of water to a young man’s poetry reading. He wasn’t just reciting it though. He was singing it. The beat and cadence rose and fell like waves of sand on a dune, turning the poem into a song. The young man’s eyes were closed but Aziraphale felt irrationally sure that if they were open, they’d be as golden as the sun.

The poem finished on a final, wavering note, and the small crowd of guests clapped politely. The poet bowed, flashing a mischievous grin and dark brown eyes to match his hair. When the applause had died, the drummer struck a new, upbeat rhythm. The young man’s voice filled the garden again, singing about love and beauty and wonder. Aziraphale watched, never once thinking about the food growing cold on his plate.

_———————————————_

_Baghdad, Persia, 915 A.D._

Crowley moved with ease through the hum of the House. The scholars were too engrossed in their own work to notice a stranger among them, and that was exactly how he liked it. He paused, looking over the shoulder of one of the translator, and when he wasn’t looking, Crowley switched a few of the letters around. Not enough to be an obvious error, but it would certainly cause a lot of trouble for future academics. If he was lucky, the mistake would be noticed within the week, and the frustration would ripple outward like a stone thrown in a pond. He’d gotten quite good at those kinds of disruptions. They weren’t as impressive in the face of his bosses, but it got the job done, and he’d never really given a damn about employee evaluations.

He repeated the trick a few more times, just to make sure the effect got across, then slipped quietly outside. His feet already knew where he was going. They took him down the street, past the markets and houses until he stood before one building in particular. It might’ve been mistaken for a mosque at a glance. A blue dome competed with the sky for space, decorated with gold and white mosaics. But no sounds of melodic reading came from inside, only a quiet murmur of voices barely audible above the din of the street. Crowley smiled and stepped inside.

The bright sun above disappeared, replaced by an artificial night. A few brazers burned in alcoves along the wall, but the main light came from the ceiling in a thousand little pinpricks, each representing a star, each star mapped into constellations. No one acknowledged his presence, but in a way that suggested he belonged there and always would. They ignored him as he meandered around the room, looking over shoulders at calculations and maps. It was incredible how far they’d come in only a few hundred short years. He’d give it only a few more decades until they figured out the Sun was actually the center of the solar system, and then astronomy would really take off—pun absolutely intended. 

Satisfied with the progress he’d seen, Crowley prepared to find a nice cool corner and maybe take a nap. Sloth had always been his favorite. But as he circled the room one last time, a snatch of chatter drifted through the doorway to the adjacent study. Crowley’s feet moved again without his permission, taking him through the curtain. Sunlight streamed into the open space, highlighting the greens of potted plants and walls of scrolls. Someone laughed, sending sound fluttering through the air like a bird. This time Crowley wanted to move forward. He rounded the corner, half expecting to see a head of curls as pale as the marble arches vaulting the ceiling. The speaker surrounded by students had blue eyes, but they were pale, and his curls were the color of the earth. Still, he recited poetry with a soft voice and a quick wit and held the young boys around him captive with his words. He held Crowley captive too, until the sun set and the stars outside one by one aligned themselves with the ones made by man.

_———————————————_

_3905 B.C._

Two figures watched as a young man killed his brother in the fields. “A shame,” the lighter one said, mostly to themselves. “He was a fine young lad. Why on earth would you encourage his brother do so such an awful thing?”

The darker one shook their head. “I didn’t have anything to do with that. He came up with it all by himself.”

“Oh. Oh dear.”

_———————————————_

_Troy, 1182B.C._

They met in the heat of battle quite by accident, and nearly killed each other until they realized who they were fighting. Aziraphale frowned and lowered their shield. “A wooden horse? Really? That was the best thing you could come up with?”

Crawly shrugged. “The Trojans fell for it, didn’t they? Kind of deserved it, just letting in a great big obvious trap like that.”

“Still. I’m sure a wily snake like you could’ve thought of something less ridiculous.”

“Wily?” Crawly wiggled his eyebrows. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Aziraphale pursed their lips and let out a resigned sigh. “If you must.”

_———————————————_

_The Holy Land, 1099 A.D._

Aziraphale had never really liked fighting. It was hard and messy and generally distasteful. He participated when necessary, and admittedly it did feel good to have a sword in his hand again, even if it wasn’t the right one, but he tried to avoid conflict as much as possible.

As soon as the company had entered the city, Aziraphale had snuck away from the other knights. He helped a few families escape, put out a few fires, and then just wandered in the opposite direction of wherever the fighting happened to be. The Holy Land was just as hot as it had been the last time he’d been there, and before long he felt sorely tempted to abandon his armor altogether.

Finding an alley in the shade, he removed his helmet and leaned against the wall. The clash of swords and shields sounded pleasantly distant. The voice at the other end of the alley did not.

“I thought I might find you here.”

Aziraphale arched a brow. “You thought you might find me here in a side alley in some forgotten town in the middle of the desert?”

“I thought I’d find you tagging along with this lot. The Crusaders.”

“And I suppose you’re here with the Turks?”

Crowley shrugged, which could’ve been a yes or a no. More likely, he was here with himself, for himself. His armor was lighter, both in form and color; mostly dyed leather and white cloth emblazoned with a blue eagle. It contrasted sharply with the red cross Aziraphale carried on his chest. Neither color suited them, he decided. 

“Well I’m not going to fight you, if that’s what you’re after. It’s far too hot, and frankly I don’t think it would do either side any favors.” Aziraphale wasn’t sure which sides he was referring to, but it didn’t really matter. Their deaths would ultimately accomplish nothing except more paperwork than he cared to do.

Crowley took up the shade on the wall opposite Aziraphale. “You’re right. Us fighting each other doesn’t really accomplish anything, does it?”

Aziraphale caught on to the sly tone in Crowley’s voice and stiffened. “I’ve told you, Crowley, meeting up occasionally is one thing, but an Agreement to…to help each other is entirely out of the question. Do you have any idea what might happen to us if our sides found out we’d been working together?”

“They won’t find out. Downstairs barely pays attention to the reports I send them; they even gave me a commendation for the capture of Jerusalem, and I wasn’t even there for that.”

“You’re lucky, then, but I’ve got Gabriel breathing down my neck. He’s practically looking for an excuse to put me at a desk for the next ten thousand years.”

“Really?” Crowley’s glasses gleamed. “When was the last time you heard from Gabriel?”

“About…six hundred years ago? Give or take.”

“But you still think he’s watching you.”

“Heaven is always watching.”

“Then how come you haven’t heard from them at all since then? From what you told me last time, they didn’t even know you and I had met.”

Aziraphale huffed. He hated admitting when Crowley had a point. But doubt still nagged at him. Crowley was a demon, after all. Tricking others was in his nature. Although he certainly didn’t seem like any other demon Aziraphale had met. And he’d never deceived Aziraphale before; not even once. Despite everything he’d been told, despite the rational part of his mind telling him that Crowley was surely up to no good, his first and only instinct was to trust him. And still, _still,_ he hesitated. “We’re on opposite sides. Mortal enemies. We’re not meant to work together.”

Crowley seemed to read Aziraphale’s mind, and nodded toward the sound of fighting. It had grown louder in the past few minutes. No, closer. “You and I are on opposite sides of this, right?” Crowley asked. He continued before Aziraphale could answer. “That means whatever action you take, I’ll counter it, and vice versa. That’s the way it’s always been. I got Boudica and you got Charlemagne. You push and I shove, and neither of us really win.”

“And you think an Agreement would somehow change that?”

“It’d at least make our lives easier.”

“I don’t know…”

“Come on. Think about all the time you could spend at all these new libraries and universities cropping up everywhere. All the new foods you could try. When was the last time you really sat down and enjoyed yourself?”

There it was, exactly what Aziraphale expected. “Don’t try to tempt me, demon. It won’t work.”

“I’m not—“ A series of frustrated sounds interrupted Crowley’s protest. “I’m not trying to tempt you, angel. I’m just saying, we don’t have to fight all the time. Or at all.”

“We’re already not fighting, aren’t we?” Aziraphale glanced pointedly at Crowley’s mace, then to his own sword still in its scabbard.

“You know what I mean. We don’t have to do this whole song and dance of pretending to thwart each other.”

Aziraphale didn’t respond. Neither did he look at Crowley, instead turning his gaze to the alley entrance. A few straggling citizens ran past, fleeing the violence. Aziraphale almost instinctively blessed them that they might safety. He felt Crowley move at the same time, doing something to the knights pursuing them, although Aziraphale couldn’t tell what. It slowed them down, whatever it was, enough to make them curse and turn back to the battle. None of them noticed the angel and the demon arguing in the alley. 

“I’m tired of fighting you, Aziraphale,” Crowley said. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he meant he was tired of fighting about the Arrangement or tired in general. Either way, he agreed.

“I am too,” he confessed. “But it’s different for you. You’ve already fallen; you can’t go any lower.”

Crowley’s face darkened. “What, so because I’m not living it up on some cloud I don’t have anything to lose?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I think that’s exactly what you meant. You can’t stand the thought of stooping to my level.”

“Crowley-.”

“No, it’s fine. I get it. You still think those pricks up there are worth all that. And maybe you’re right. Falling’s certainly no stroll in the park. You’re probably better off where you’re at.”

Aziraphale bit his lip. “Crowley, please.”

“I’ll see you ‘round, Aziraphale. If you can afford to.” Crowley left the safety of the alley behind, heading straight for the sound of fighting. Aziraphale watched him go, then turned and went in the opposite direction.

_———————————————_

_Constantinople, 1204 A.D._

Crowley really fucking hated crusades. His original idea had been brilliant— get a bunch of stupid humans to fight over a sand-filled city in the middle of nowhere. But in practice it was awful. Just one of them had been more than enough, in Crowley’s opinion, and four was just overkill. He’d stopped influencing them a long time ago, but they just kept coming back, like the world’s worst fashion trend. The only reason he was there at all was because it was a Crusade, which meant Aziraphale would be there, and the idiot would probably get himself killed trying to save a kitten or something. The complete bastard.

“Crowley!” A hand emerged from an alley and yanked him off the street. Aziraphale was breathing hard, and he looked tired. He turned to a family that huddled behind him, and muttered quick words. A shiver Crowley recognized as a blessing snaked down his spine, and then he and Aziraphale were alone.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to find you.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Why?”

“Because…” He realized he couldn’t say any of his reasons without looking like a complete idiot, so he instead he trailed off into a shrug. “I got bored.”

“Really? You got _bored_?” A group of soldiers broke into a house across the street. Aziraphale waved a tired hand, and a moment later two small children climbed out of a window on the first floor and joined the fleeing crowd. Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry Crowley, but I’m terribly busy at the moment. How about we meet up in a few years? Hopefully this mess will all be over by then.”

“But what if…” _What if you find out this mess was my idea in the first place? What if you discorporate, and those pricks upstairs don’t give you a new body? What if I lose you?_ “What if I helped you?”

“You what?”

Crowley shrugged again, to hide the muscles that had suddenly decided to go spastic. “I could help you. You can’t save the whole city by yourself, angel.”

“But won’t your side notice?”

“Nah. They already sent me the commendation—completely unearned, by the way. I marry the bloody Pope now for all they care.”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on. It’d be a real feather in your wing, if you managed to save the whole city. Even Gabriel wouldn’t be able to complain then.”

Aziraphale looked like he was wrestling fiercely with himself. His hands played out the struggle in fierce detail. He might’ve stayed indecisive for the rest of the Crusades if a woman’s scream hadn’t made them both jump. His blue eyes closed in resignation or perhaps relief. “Alright.” They opened again, fixing on Crowley with something he might label as hope. “And Crowley? Thank you.”

_———————————————_

_Verdun, 1914 A.D._

It was to be the deadliest war the world had ever seen, but no one knew it yet. The fighting had only just begun, and both sides still clung to the hope that it would all be over soon. They’d been told it was a noble thing, to serve. They’d been told it was for a worthy cause. They’d been told they’d be home for the holidays. The sun set on Christmas Eve, and those words faded with the last echoes of cannon fire. On both sides of the trenches, men and boys settled in for another long night of war.

The cannons did not resume their fire. As the last rays of sunlight were replaced with a ripple of stars, another sound replaced it. Faint, and wavering, but unmistakable. The first strains of _Silent Night_ floated over the battlefield and left calm in its wake.

No one could ever say for sure who was singing. Each side claimed it was the other, but within minutes they were joining it in a dozen different languages. When they peeked over the tops of their trenches, certain of a trick, Christmas trees twinkling with bright lights greeted them. The soldiers emerged to marvel at the miracle, all along the front, and allowed themselves one night of peace. 

Christmas Day, alliances and enemies were forgotten. No Man’s Land became a football field, and canned meat became a roast goose fit for all. Although much was lost in translation, or lack thereof, friendships were forged. They would only last a day, but a day was all they needed. A white-haired medic and a red-haired lieutenant watched the festivities from their respective sides, barely exchanging words despite their shared tongue. A compliment on a job well done for both parties. Peace and goodwill, and abandonment of posts and disregard of explicit orders to kill each other. Both men seemed tired and wary of each other, trying to bridge a wide chasm with nothing more than a rope and a few flimsy words.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, as the sun set once again and animosity once again reared its ugly head. “I have to tell you, I’m—“

“I should go,” Crowley interrupted. “Lots to do. People to tempt, trouble to make. All that.”

He walked away before Aziraphale could say anything else, leaving him standing in the middle of a muddy field that would soon be littered with corpses once again. The next day, the fighting resumed, and all thoughts of love and goodwill and peace on earth vanished under the rattle of gunfire.

_———————————————_

_Soho, England, 1942 A.D._

Crowley’s car pulled up to the curb in a screech of tires, and only when it was fully stopped did Aziraphale allow himself to relinquish his grip on the plush leather seat. It wasn’t just the speed that terrified him, although that was certainly part of it. If Crowley intended to drive this recklessly every time, then Aziraphale foresaw very few lifts home in his future. But that wasn’t the whole of it. A heart he didn’t need thudded in his chest, and the world tilted around him like a merry-go-round. Hanging onto something was the only way he could ground himself and his wildly spinning thoughts.

“Alright, here you are,” Crowley said. There they were indeed. The bookshop stood silent and empty, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure he wanted to face it alone. But inviting Crowley in would be so much worse.

“Would you care to join me for a drink? It’s the least I could do after…” Aziraphale gestured vaguely. 

“After I saved your sorry arse?” Crowley supplied with a smirk.

“If you must put it that way. Although I really did have everything in hand.”

“Sure you did, angel.”

There it was again. That flutter in his chest, the catch of breath in his throat. Aziraphale closed his eyes, steadied himself, and climbed out of that death-trap Crowley called a Bentley with affection that— No. Aziraphale would not allow himself to be jealous of a car.

“How are your feet?”

“They’ll heal.”

“Good.”

Aziraphale didn’t bother fumbling with his keys as he led Crowley into the shop. A bottle of port and two glasses waited for them in the back. Aziraphale indulged himself, offering the other glass to Crowley and perching himself on the edge of the couch.

“You alright, angel?” Crowley leaned against Aziraphale’s desk, worry written around his dark glasses.

“Fine. Just a tad shaken is all. That was a closer call than I would’ve cared to make, if I’m being perfectly honest.”

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed. “But you ought to know by now, you can’t get into trouble without me.”

“Yes. I’m aware.” Too aware, in fact. Aziraphale stared into his port and didn’t squirm under Crowley’s gaze. Here he was, sharing a drink with a demon— his enemy— and he was fine with that. He’d been _happy_ to see Crowley. He’d always been happy to see him. Or, almost, anyway. He cared about Crowley more than he wanted to admit when he shouldn’t have cared about him at all. He couldn’t pinpoint the day, the moment, when it all went pear-shaped. When they’d changed the dance from one of vague allies to friends to— Aziraphale took a long drink. 

“Still. I would’ve thought you’d be on the front lines.””

Crowley looked away. “I’m tired of fighting their wars.”

“As—“ Aziraphale paused as the underlying meaning hit him, and then firmly stormed on. “As am I.”

The silence between them changed then, from the light relief of living to see another day to something heavier. An understanding, of sorts. Aziraphale reigned in his fear with every ounce of will he could muster. It was true; he had tired of the ages-old charade they’d played. Not just to their superiors but to each other. He was tired of trying to dance without ever touching.

It seemed like ages ago Aziraphale had confessed that he wasn’t sure he’d know love if Cupid himself whacked him over the head with it. No, apparently it took several tons of rock and shattered stained glass and one bag of ancient, mostly inaccurate prophecies to make him realize exactly what love felt like. And, more importantly, that Crowley felt it too. While Aziraphale had had several hundred years to deal with the idea of he and Crowley being friends, being something more was a terrifying thought. One that he pushed out of his mind entirely, to be dealt with at a later date.

For the time being, he smiled and tipped his glass towards Crowley. No appropriate toasts came to mind, so he simply smiled and said, “Cheers.”

Crowley’s smile made his chest flutter again, and he decided he quite liked the feeling. “Cheers.”

_———————————————_

_Florence, Italy, 1504 A.D._

“See, the thing is, I can’t tell if he thinks we’re friends or colleagues or enemies under a truce or what, and it’s driving me crazy!”

“Mmm,” Leonardo said, clearly paying more attention to the fruit stand than to the demon raving next to him. 

“It’s like, one minute he’s doing me favors and inviting me out to little restaurants with ‘the most marvelous kebabs’ and the next he’s telling me we shouldn’t even be seen together because of what our masters might think. I mean, you’d think after all the time we’ve known each other, he would’ve at least calmed down a little, but instead it’s like every time I see him he’s _more_ anxious, not less.”

“Mmm,” Leo said again, tucking some figs into his basket. “These will make an excellent desert. How do you feel about candied figs, Crowley?”

“I…I don’t give a fuck about figs! Listen to me! I’m going to go nuts if I can’t at least figure out whether he likes me or not!”

“I like nuts,” Leo mused. “Crowley, you mustn’t worry so much. Why, the answer is as plain as the nose on my face.”

“Oh, isss it?” Crowley hissed.

Leo didn’t seemed at all perturbed by the sliver of forked tongue that escaped Crowley’s lips. “Yes, it is. Think about it. Why would Aziraphale care so much about the two of you getting caught?”

“Because he’s a bloody angel, that’s why. He can’t get caught doing anything ‘wrong’.”

“But you told me that he once disobeyed an order and then lied directly to your lord’s face about it, didn’t he? That doesn’t seem the type of fellow who puts much stock in being an angelic person.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“And despite his misgivings, he continues to seek you out and keep company with you, does he not?”

“Well, half the time it’s really just coincidence, and—“

“And in all that time, has he ever given you any reason to avoid each other, other than the consequences of being discovered?”

“No, but—“

Leo’s dark eyes twinkled, as though the two of them were sharing a mischievous secret. “Crowley, he cares about you. Deeply. Why else would he constantly put himself at risk, and constantly worry about your own safety?”

“Because he’s an—“

“An angel. You’ve said. One who clearly sees something in you worth whatever punishment he might face. I can’t imagine any other reason why he’d spend so much time in your company.”

Crowley made a series of incomprehensible noises while Leonardo haggled with a merchant for a bag of nuts. Aziraphale liked him. He enjoyed his company. All his worrying was only because he cared, the bloody bastard. And all this time Crowley’d thought he’d just been making excuses. “You really think so?”

“I do. Now, are you quite finished with your fit? We have work to attend to.”

Crowley nodded dully. Leo scanned the square, taking in the myriad of cages and posts. Barks, howls, growls and songs merged with the din of the marketplace. “Where should we start?”

Crowley surveyed the same scene, eyes resting on a peacock with a brilliant blue chest and a train of emerald and azure feathers that were in danger of being trampled by the passing crowd. He pointed it out. “That one.”

Leo clapped him on the back. “An excellent choice, my friend!”

As Crowley watched, Leo expertly haggled the seller down to almost a pittance—with a little demonic help, of course. Then, just as the more regular customers and merchants realized what was happening with horrified expressions, he took the peacock in his arms and threwit high as he could. Leonardo laughed, full bellied and mirthful, as the peacock soared through the air towards freedom, and as he watched those sapphire wings in the sunlight, Crowley joined him.

_———————————————_

_London, 1618 A.D._

They met in their usual spot; an inn a block away from the Thames. Discreetly, of course. Crowley arrived first, and spent the better part of an hour lurking in a booth in the corner. He liked lurking, when it was appropriately dramatic. Helped set the mood, put everyone else at unease. He waited, and he lurked, and he nursed a beer and kept the hot chocolate at the seat across from him steaming hot. 

Aziraphale finally arrived, completely ruining the atmosphere Crowley had been building with his usual fluff. “Crowley,” he said as he sat down across from the demon. “Good to see you. I see you’ve already ordered for me; how kind.”

“Now don’t start with that again,” Crowley warned. “I told you, I’m the furthest thing from kind there could possibly be. Look, for all you know I put mud in that cup instead of cocoa.”

Aziraphale took a long sip, looking pointedly at Crowley. It was decidedly not mud. “If you insist,” he said, giving ground even as his tone said he thought he was right. The smug bastard. “How’ve you been while I was gone? Not too much trouble, I assume?”

“Don’t worry, I haven’t set London on fire or anything. Just the usual.”

“And my end?”

Crowley’s scowl shifted to that of someone who’d eaten something pleasant but was trying to be polite about it. “’S fine. One miracle for every temptation, just like we said. More or less.”

“Crowley.”

“What? I can’t keep tabs on every little thing! It’s a ripple effect. It ripples.”

Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to frown, but his didn’t look nearly as mean spirited. Crowley supposed it was an angel thing, looking saintly even when he was miffed. “What about you, then? How was the Holy Roman Empire?”

“It was fine,” Aziraphale answered loftily. He followed his answer with another sip, and when he put his mug down his attention stayed firmly on it. If Crowley hadn’t known any better, he might’ve said Aziraphale was avoiding the subject. But he did know better, and Aziraphale absolutely was.

“What, exactly, happened?”

“Oh, the usual. A few miracles, a few temptations and devious thoughts.”

“Which included?”

“Well, you know how they are over there. Quite a rowdy bunch, and always so quick to anger.”

“Aziraphale, what did you do?”

The angel coughed indelicately. Something about the wall over Crowley’s shoulder must’ve been absolutely fascinating, because Aziraphale couldn’t take his eyes off it. “It wasn’t really my fault. Like I said, the politics over there are a bit techy and, ah, I might’ve. Well, I might’ve accidentally gotten a few politicians thrown out the window.”

Crowley stared at him, half torn between laughing and shouting. “No! Not again!”

“I’m sorry!”

“This is the third time, Az!”

“I can’t help it! The politics there are a mess; it doesn’t take much effort to incite a riot.”

“But the window? Really?”

“I did make sure no one got hurt this time. Landed them in a pile of dung.”

“Aziraphale, that’s…I can’t say its brilliant, but it’s definitely something.”

“Thank you. I think, though, you ought to take any future jobs in Prague. Eventually someone’s bound to notice all the politicians getting defenestrated.”

“Is that what it’s called? Throwing someone out a window?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Imagine that. They’ll make up a word for just about anything these days, won’t they? I swear, humans will never cease to amaze me.”

“Nor I.”

_———————————————_

_Essex, 1381 A.D._

The sun shone brightly despite the crisp fall day. Not a single cloud dared to pierce the pure blue sky. Bright colored leaves swirled in the street, a celebration of red, orange, and yellow. Smoke rose from the center of the square, bringing with it the scent of burning wood and roasting meat. Not a soul disturbed the quiet of the street; no doubt they were all in the fire, or else safely in their homes. Only a single figure dared to step foot outside, and he had no soul to speak of.

Crowley closed his eyes against the scenery and tried to block out the fire cutting through the sharp, cold air. The smell of it made him want to gag, to run back inside and barricade his windows like everyone else with an ounce of sense. But he had a job to do and Goddamnit if he wasn’t going to see it done.

A breeze disturbed the bell in the church steeple, ringing it in a hollow echo of a call to mass. Crowley wasn’t even sure what day it was. It might well have been Sunday, or Thursday, or November bloody 31st. No one would come. Not while the fire raged in the square, and the sounds of sickness floated from every other home. Crowley gave the square a wide berth, and approached the church by a side door instead. A tired young man opened the door before Crowley even knocked. “We’re not taking any more— oh. It’s you.”

“It’s me,” Crowley repeated hollowly. Another breeze sent smoke drifting their way, making the young man cough and retch. Crowley really couldn’t blame him. The smell of burning meat was enough to make anyone sick. He waited until the lad was done, quietly cursing the smoke to flow away from the church. Someone else could deal with that awful scent for a while.

“I’ll go get him,” the young man said when he’d recovered. “Can I do anything else for you?”

Crowley looked past him into the church. The pews had been replaced with cots, blankets, anything that could make the people inside more comfortable. Young men in white robes moved among the people lying there, giving out more comforting words than food or medicine. Crowley summoned a handful of coins. “Don’t spend it all in one place,” he told him.

“God bless you,” the lad said, and disappeared from the door. Low moans filled his place. Crowley shrugged the blessing off with an uncomfortable twinge; he’d almost gotten used to it by now. He loitered by the door, kicking a pebble around and growing dangerously close to lurking when Aziraphale finally arrived.

He was wearing the same novice robes as the other young men, which didn’t suit him in the slightest. He’d never looked particularly young, but every passing week seemed to be adding more lines to his face, seeping more color from his cheeks. Today a little color had returned, in the form of deep bruises around his eyes. He looked almost as sick as the people inside.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale greeted, and the warmth in that one name said everything that needed to be said.

“You look like shit,” Crowley told him. “You’ve been overworking yourself again.”

Aziraphale tried to look miffed and succeeded only in looking tired. “Perhaps a bit,” he admitted. “Let’s just go, shall we? I can’t stay out too long.”

Crowley sighed, but there would be no persuading the angel otherwise. Rather than arguing, he simply offered Aziraphale his arm. He led Aziraphale without conversation, through the dark and quiet streets, away from the fire and the city itself. When they reached a hill that offered a nice view of the countryside, they stopped to rest. Aziraphale sat with no regard for the grass stains on his robes and closed his eyes. When they opened again, Crowley offered him a bottle of wine, which he accepted with the barest of smiles.

“It looks almost peaceful, doesn’t it?” Aziraphale murmured. “One could almost pretend…”

Aziraphale’s hand was so close to Crowley’s own. It looked much paler than it should, and much thinner. He moved over so that the tips of his fingers brushed the angel’s, offering whatever comfort he could. “It won’t last forever,” he reminded him. “These things always pass.”

“True, but what will be left when it’s over? It seems that for all their steps forward, they’ve taken so many back.”

“They’ll be fine. They’re a resilient lot, this one. They’ve made it this far, haven’t they?” Looking out at the town, Crowley could see just how true his words were. He’d never been one for the big picture, but he could see it now, looking back even a century, just how much humanity had grown. It made him almost proud, if he could ever find it in himself to admit that. 

The wine was nearly half gone when Aziraphale spoke again. “Do you remember Egypt?”

“You’re going to have to be a little more specific, angel,” Crowley teased. In truth, he had a dozen memories of that hot, dry land, and none of them were pleasant.

“It seems so familiar, doesn’t it? They might worship different gods in different tongues, but the cries always sound the same. They’re hungry, and sick, and afraid, and I can never do enough to help them.”

Crowley closed his eyes. He recalled exactly which event Aziraphale was referring to. He’d only been there in the beginning and he’d fled to avoid a proper smiting, but even then it had been bad. Aziraphale never talked about the plagues, about the part he played in them, and Crowley didn’t ask. It was one of those lines in the sand that neither side dared cross.

“You can’t blame yourself,” Crowley said. “These things, they’re part of that plan. What’s the word you always use?”

“Don’t,” Aziraphale warned. “I don’t care if it’s part of the Plan. It’s…it’s…they’re only human. They don’t deserve this.”

“I know.”And that was all that really needed to be said. There was no justification for this suffering, no reward at the end of the line. He knew that, and Aziraphale did too, and they both knew why he couldn’t say what he really meant. “Look, it’ll get better, right? It always does. Give it a few years. You’ll see. Things will come around eventually.”

_———————————————_

_Milan, 1407 A.D._

“Ah, Crowley, there you are!”

Crowley didn’t look up so much as his head floated in that general direction. The gardens swam around him, and the heavy scent of wine and perfume didn’t help in the slightest. Aziraphale’s face warped, making his expression indiscernible. “Are you alright?”

“‘M fine.” Crowley hiccuped, which really meant that he wasn’t fine considering he’d never had the physical capacity to hiccup before.

“You don’t look fine,” Aziraphale countered. He did have a point there. “Perhaps you ought to sober up?”

Crowley considered the idea, then dismissed it with a shake of his head. Or maybe his head stayed still and the room shook around it. He wasn’t sure. “Nah.”

“I really think you should. I’ve got something to show you; I think you’ll be very pleased.”

Crowley again tried to fix his eyes on the angel, but they kept focusing incorrectly and making his head several times bigger than it should’ve been. Finally he sighed and cleared his head, which immediately lamented the loss of alcohol. “Alright then, what is it?”

From his bag, Aziraphale presented Crowley with a folio, clearly proud with himself. “This better not be another book,” Crowley warned. “I’ve told you before, I refuse to read anything educational. If I’m going to learn, it’s got to be by force or not at all.”

“Oh just open it, you infuriating serpent.”

Crowley did. It was not a book, but a collection of maps. Crowley flipped through them, trying to discern what was so important about them that Aziraphale would make such a fuss about it. The angel, as it was, was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Well?”

“It’s…erm…they’re very nice illustrations,” Crowley offered.

“Really? You didn’t notice anything…odd about them?”

Crowley frowned and returned to the maps. What in Heaven’s name was the angel playing at? He flipped past a poor outline of Asia, a largely incorrect map of Africa, and then an illustration of the universe that was so wrong that it actually made him feel dizzy all over again. “So you got me a bunch of incorrect maps?”

“Not you, Crowley. I’ve reintroduced Ptolmey’s works to Europe. This—“ Aziraphale tapped the map of the universe, complete with planetary spheres encircling the globe—“Is what current astronomers are basing all their discoveries on.”

“But that’s not how it looks at all.”

“I know.” Aziraphale beamed. “It’s going to disrupt scientists for years. Not to mention the trouble it would bring the church when the truth comes out.” Understanding dawned on Crowley. He looked from the map, to Aziraphale, and back again. 

“You mean you—“

“Yes.”

“On purpose?”

“Yes, well I quite figured it was time to hold up my end of the arrangement, as it were.”

“Your end? Does that mean you’re finally accepting my proposal?“

“I suppose so. But if I catch one whiff of evildoing…” Aziraphale wagged his finger at Crowley. The warning was somewhat offset by the mirth crinkling his eyes. 

Crowley grinned. “Absolutely not. Swear to the devil himself.”

_———————————————_

_France, 1429 A.D._

She was far too young. As a soldier tied her thin wrists with rough rope, she stood proud and tall against the stake. The jeering crowd below didn’t faze her at all; she kept her clear gaze on the clouds above the parapet. Her simple white shift fluttered against a lean form built from years of fighting.

Another soldier brandished a torch on the other side of the courtyard. The crowd parted for his slow march towards the platform. Joan watched the flames coming for her with a brave face, but Crowley knew that for her to be brave, she must first be afraid. He moved toward the platform and the soldier mounting the steps, even as the crowd pressed in on him. If this was God’s plan, he’d make sure it never came to fruition. 

A hand landed on his shoulder. He shrugged it off, only for it to again grip him tightly. Crowley spun, ready to fight whoever was trying to hold him back, and found himself almost nose to nose with Aziraphale. His blue eyes sparkled with tears. “Don’t,” he said quietly.

“What? Aziraphale, let me go.”

Above the din, someone began announcing the young girl’s crimes. _Heresy_ . _Treason. Murder._ “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Aziraphale held Crowley in his gaze, but his words weren’t for him. “We can’t interfere.”

Harsh anger rose in Crowley’s throat. “I’m not just going to sit here and let them burn her alive!”

“Please.” Aziraphale’s grip loosened on Crowley’s shoulder. The angel’s fingers trembled ever so slightly. “Don’t.”

“She’s a child, Aziraphale. She’s a child, and they’re going to kill her.”

“I know,” Aziraphale whispered. The announcer finished by crying out Joan’s punishment. The crowd roared. Crowley turned in time to see the soldier light the dried wood under the platform. The fire caught quickly and crackled upward to the post and the girl tied to it. She kept her gaze fixed on the sky, never once wavering. Her skirt flapped wildly, as though it were trying to escape the sparks spilling onto it. Crowley took an involuntary step forward. Aziraphale’s hand fell to find his and pulled him back. His fingers felt cold, even as close to the heat of the blaze as they were. 

The crowd roared again as the flames caught Joan’s skirt. They began eagerly licking up her body and although she didn’t scream, her face twisted in pain. Crowley’s hand tightened around Aziraphale’s. “I can’t just stand by and watch this,” he said. “There has to be something we can do.”

In response, Aziraphale raised a hand, as if he was waving to someone. Joan swayed against her bonds, then fell limp. “It will be peaceful,” he told him. “She won’t suffer. Crowley…” The angel’s voice broke. He didn’t have to say the rest. Crowley knew by now. He couldn’t help it any more than Crowley could help the actions of his own side. Fury continued to burn in Crowley’s chest, not directed at Aziraphale, never at him, but at someone else. The soldiers, the crowd, the whole of humanity, God. 

The thunder of the flames competed with the crowd, drowning everything else out. Even then, Crowley caught Aziraphale’s voice under the din. “They’ll make her a saint,” he said quietly. “For all she’s done.”

“Did you know her?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale murmured. “I fought alongside her, as she held the banner for France. I’ve never met anyone more brave.”

_———————————————_

_Madrid, Spain, 1495 A.D._

If Crowley had had even the smallest inkling of what the Spanish were doing, he never would’ve come. He would’ve turned tail and fled as far away as possible, Arrangement be damned. And then, when he was far enough, he would’ve found a tavern and drunk himself through to the next century.

As it was, he hadn’t known until he entered Madrid, but he did his best to drown it all out anyway. It didn’t do much good; the very air around him seemed to be poisoned with hate and fear. The commendation Hell had sent him burned a hole in his pocket. He’d get rid of it later, when he was alone. 

A man screamed across the street as soldiers garbed in red dragged him from his home. His wife and children cried in the doorway. Crowley hunched lower and drank his cup dry. Red rivulets streamed down either side of his mouth, and when he wiped them away they stained his sleeve. He stared at that stain far longer than he should’ve before he brushed it away. Cursing the inquisitors was too easy; making them more susceptible to bribes and threats, giving them what they couldn’t refuse. It was too easy, but it was only a handful of soldiers out of hundreds. One man out of thousands. Crowley’s cup refilled itself without prompting, and he drank automatically. He could only hope Aziraphale was faring better.

_———————————————_

_Santo Domingo, Haiti, 1495 A.D._

The sounds of sickness never stopped. Coughing, retching, moaning, pleading. It was enough to make Aziraphale want to scream, to up and leave on the first ship back to Europe. But Michael himself had given Aziraphale this assignment; he was to stay until he found a righteous person who could take his place. God knew how long that would take.

He’d barely even had any time to look. Every moment of the day was spent tending to the sick in the church. At night he tried to work, to turn the hearts of the soldiers and missionaries to see the error of their ways, but he was so tired now, so tired all the time. Sleep called louder to him than it ever had. But of course he couldn’t sleep, not while there was work to be done. 

At the faintest sign of dawn, Aziraphale finally sat himself down on the steps of the church. The heavy perfume of jungle flowers still hung in the air, despite the jungle itself being cut back by almost a mile to make room for the new houses and inns and shops. He closed his eyes and tuned out everything human. He inhaled that sharp, warm scent of flowers and green leaves and thought of home. Of Crowley. He could picture Crowley’s reaction if he could see what was happening here, across the sea. Although he’d never say it out loud, not even to himself, Aziraphale agreed. Thankfully Crowley wasn’t here and, wherever he was, Aziraphale hoped he was better off. 

_———————————————_

_Soho, 1963 A.D._

As usual, their meeting had run late into the evening. The Soho nightlife was just beginning to awaken; neon lights flicking on and the very last of ‘respectable’ society retreating into their homes. Crowley could’ve easily blended into the nightly crowd. He leaned against Aziraphale’s doorframe with practiced ease, all low-rise jeans and leather jacket. Compared to him, Aziraphale looked like a relic.

“Here.” Aziraphale thrust a small, wrapped package at Crowley. The demon took it, curiosity and surprise straying across his face.

“What’s this?”

“Nothing, really. A souvenir from my last trip to Belgium. It’s nothing as good as your work with records, of course, but I think you’ll be pleased anyway.”

Crowley cast the dull gold wrapping paper aside to reveal a small plastic square. “It looks like a cassette tape,” he said. “But smaller.”

“That’s because it is. An upgrade of sorts. I wasn’t sure what music you liked, so I put some of Mozart’s on it. I remember you two got on rather well.”

Crowley’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean, on it?”

“It plays music. Like a Tefi radio, but you can take it with you. Even in your car, if you like.”

Aziraphale’s hands found themselves behind his back. He’d gotten quite used to gleaning Crowley’s expression after nearly six millennia behind those dark glasses, but when he wanted to he could be virtually unreadable. This was one of those times, as he stared at the little plastic square in his hand.

“If you don’t want Mozart, I could put on something else. Or you could find some blanks and make your own, I suppose.”

“No, it’s fine. I like Mozart. He had a great sense of style.” Whatever was storming inside Crowley passed, and he looked up with an easy smile that Aziraphale melt far past relieving tension. His hands’ grip on each other tightened. “Might get some others, though. Ever heard of the Beatles?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

“‘Course not. They’re absolutely terrible. Maybe I’ll introduce you sometime. ” 

Something fluttered in Aziraphale’s chest, light and wild. “I’d like that.”

Outside, pretty young things laughed and lived under the neon lights of Soho, barely sparing a glance to the older gentleman who stood in the doorway of his shop, watching a sleek, ancient car speedy away and failing to will away the pink in his cheeks. 

_———————————————_

_Soho, London, Nov. 25 1991 A.D._

A quiet knocking at the door startled Aziraphale from his book. He set it aside and hurried downstairs as fast as he dared without making a racket. Despite his efforts to remain quiet, a figure emerged from the back room looking disheveled and frightened. “It’s alright, Violet.” Aziraphale assured her. “Go back to sleep.” The woman didn’t retreat. The knocking had stopped, but Aziraphale could see a familiar outline against the door window. “It’s okay,” Aziraphale said again. “It’s a friend.”

The door opened with a soft click to reveal a chilled November morning. Streetlights punctured the dark fog; Aziraphale wondered just how early it was. Hovering on the doorstep like a ghost was Crowley. He didn’t move, didn’t saunter past Aziraphale into his shop or make some wily remark about whatever trouble he’d gotten into. He just stood there, looking lost.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s gone,” Crowley whispered, and then he was burying his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder. His shoulders trembled under Aziraphale’s hands, which rubbed at his back of their own volition.

“Who’s gone, Crowley? What on earth has happened?”

Violet appeared at Aziraphale’s side, robe pulled tightly over her chest. Her expression was one of sympathy and sorrow. “Should I put on the kettle?”

“No need, my dear.” Already a kettle was warming itself over the stove. “Please, Crowley, just tell me what’s the matter.”

“He— he said he was sick, but I didn’t think…he died. Yesterday evening. He’s gone.”

“ _Who,_ Crowley?”

“No,” the woman beside him breathed. “Please, god. Is it Freddie?”

Crowley nodded into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. Violet stifled a sob. “Oh god.”

Although he could be described as ‘out of touch’ at the best of times, even Aziraphale had learned who Freddie Mercury was, at least enough to know how important he was to many residents of Soho and one red-headed demon in particular. A small lump formed in his own throat. Freddie had meant so much to so many people, and if Aziraphale had to guess, he might’ve said that Freddie was to Crowley as Oscar had once been to himself. And now he was gone.

“Come inside, my dear,” he said quietly into Crowley’s ear. Crowley didn’t swagger inside so much as let himself be led, while Violet trailed behind to make sure the door was properly closed and locked once again. Aziraphale knew better than to tell Crowley it would be alright, that Freddie was in a better place now. Those things might’ve been true, but they wouldn’t be a comfort. 

As Aziraphale set out mugs, Violet woke the others. Crowley stood in the middle of the flat and looked abandoned. One by one, half a dozen people received the news in their own fashion, and one by one gathered around the kitchen table. Each mug was given to its proper owner in silence, broken only by the sounds of soft crying. Crowley was the last to join, guided gently by the arm to the table’s head. Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to take him and hold him until the days and weeks took away the pain, but he sufficed for a gentle squeeze to Crowley’s shoulder before retreating to the corner of the kitchen. Bit by bit, morning pushed through the haze, bringing with it the sounds of life from outside. Violet emerged from her partner’s arms to place a hand over Crowley’s, which startled him enough out of his vacant stare to see the empathy in her eyes. Although the tears didn’t stop for quite some time, the silence was gradually replaced with murmurs, then soft voices of reassurance and hope. 

_———————————————_

_Year 2, Day 74_

Crowley’s nimble fingers sifted through the box of records tucked away in the corner. With each rejected cardboard sleeve, his expression of concern etched itself deeper onto his face. “Angel,” he said, when he’d reached the very end of the collection. “Do you have _any_ music from his century?”

At his desk, Aziraphale paused. His pen hovered in the air above his notes, not even thinking about dripping ink from the nib. “I believe I have some delightful bops from the 40’s around here somewhere.”

“You do realize the 40’s are about 70 years out of date, right?”

Aziraphale sniffed. “Capes.”

“Listen, capes look cool, and it’s a damn crime that they ever went out of fashion. But you don’t see me going around Essex looking like the Scarlett Pimpernel, do you?”

“I certainly wouldn’t mind if you did. I thought she looked rather dashing.”

“That’s not the point.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Well if you don’t like my tastes, you’re more than welcome to bring your own music to the shop.”

“You wouldn’t like my music.”

“So you’ve said. And yet, I find your Queen songs to be rather pleasant for a drive.”

Well of course he did. The Bentley didn’t allow any other artists to grace her tape deck, save for those awful few weeks in 1991 when she’d refused to play anything else. Not that Crowley had wanted her to. But there would be no use in complaining about her music choices. It was like that old saying; _driver picks the music, passengers are free to find their own rides_. As if Crowley would ever dream of finding another car. 

Other music, however, was very much on the table. Crowley considered the ancient record player, which was probably older than the records stored under it, and summoned Frank Valli & the Four Seasons. The 70’s seemed like a good halfway point between Aziraphale’s archaic tastes and the modern day classics. And really, you just couldn’t go wrong with the 70’s. 

He expertly flipped the record onto the player, and measured the needle to the perfect starting point. _December, 1963_. That had been a great year. The record scratched for a moment, skipped, and then the needle caught.

A sound came through the stereo that was decidedly not _Frank Valli & the Four Seasons _ . It sounded almost like some ancient swing. Crowley checked the cardboard sheath, then the faded, spinning label. It definitely should’ve been piano and synth. But all that played were trumpets and and saxophone and…”Is this _Peggy Lee_?” Crowley asked incredulously.

Aziraphale hummed an agreement. “Oh. I might’ve forgotten to mention. The shop is quite partial to its swings and do-wops.”

“The shop…” Crowley could’ve kicked himself. Of course Aziraphale would be drawn to like-minded things, in the same way Crowley had been drawn to the Bentley. Well. At least it wasn’t fond of jazz.

Crowley let the dulcet tones of Peggy Lee sink into his core, and then he strode across the room and extended his hand. “Dance with me.”

Aziraphale looked up, glasses perched uselessly against his nose and sleeves suspiciously free of ink. “I beg your pardon?”

“I want you to dance with me.”

“I’m working.”

“Please?”

“I only know the gavotte.”

“Then that gives you a leg up on me. Come on.” Crowley’s heart skipped four beats, and then Aziraphale took his hand.

By any and all definitions, it wasn’t a dance. There was quite a lot of fumbling in the beginning, as neither being knew what to do with their hands. Each of them stepped on the other’s toes more than once. There were no fancy flourishes, no spins or indulgent dips. But eventually, just as _Frank Valli_ began crooning the opening lines to _La Vie en Rose_ , they got the hang of it. 

_———————————————_

_Year 2, day 189_

Sometimes Milo had to wonder about _A.Z. Fell, Purveyor of Books to the Gentry_. There was no doubt he was queer; not with that outfit and the way he referred to Milo and their friends as ‘my dear’ and the exceptionally large collection of LGBTQ literature. Not to mention the fact that half the time Milo dropped by, Mr. Fell’s boyfriend could be seen lounging in the back. No, Mr. Fell was definitely queer, but that wasn’t the issue.

There were times, rare but unmistakable, when Milo could’ve sworn Mr. Fell was _something else_. Milo had no way to prove this. It wasn’t anything more than a feeling, a fleeting gut instinct that they could never quite pin down. The way a sense of calm and comfort washed over Milo the second they entered the shop. Their friends felt it too, and that was part of the reason they visited so often despite never buying anything. Well, that and Mr. Fell’s homemade biscuits. Milo knew a few older folks who swore up and down that the shop and its owner hadn’t changed at all since the 80s. Violet, who’d once spent several nights at Mr. Fells after getting kicked out, said he was a guardian, a blessing, and it would be poor form to question it. Other rumors circled about members of the mob suddenly deciding to switch careers after paying Mr. Fell a visit, casual browsers recovering from a hard day’s work finding just the thing they wanted to read despite the books in question standing wildly out of place from its antique neighbors. Kids who came in with missing pet posters always discovered said pet waiting for them on their doorstep when they returned from their search. Little miracles surrounded Mr. Fell’s bookshop. Miracles, and coins glued to the sidewalk.

Milo scuffed at one of the coins on his way in. It was a £2, and they were close to getting it lose. Whoever had taken the time to painstakingly fuse a handful of lose change to the block around Mr. Fell’s shop had a sick sense of humor and more time on their hands than was healthy. For now, the coin remained stubbornly stuck, so Milo abandoned the effort and pushed the shop door open.

He could hear Mr. Fell’s light voice in the back, and then he emerged from his workroom, boyfriend in tow. Well. Maybe boyfriend wasn’t quite the right word for it. _Paramour_. Lover. Partner, maybe. Whatever it was, Mr. Crowley did not look like the sort of person one would refer to as a boyfriend.

“Hello, Milo!” Mr. Fell greeted warmly. “Good to see you. This is my…this is Crowley. Crowley, you remember Milo, don’t you? They’ll be looking after the flat and the shop while we’re gone.”

Although Crowley’s eyes were hidden behind velvet-black sunglasses, Milo got the sudden impression of being inspected. It sent a shudder down their spine, but they held up. If they couldn’t even be confident about themselves around Mr. Fell and his… they certainly wouldn’t be confident around the rest of civil society. 

Seemingly, Satisfied, Crowley nodded. “Nice to officially meet you, Milo.”

“You too.” They turned their attention to Mr. Fell, who surveyed the shop in what appeared to be a last-ditch effort to make sure everything was in order. “Anything else I need to know, Mr. Fell?”

He pursed his lips in thought. “Hmm. You have all the opening times and closing conditions. I left instructions on the care of the books in the back room. Remember, you’re not to sell anything not clearly marked as ‘light reading’. The refrigerator and cupboards should be stocked, but there is emergency money in the top lefthand drawer of my desk. You may let your friends come around during the day, provided they aren’t rowdy and stay away from the first editions, but no one is to stay the night without my permission. If it’s an emergency, call me first. Or actually, call Crowley. I don’t have a mobile. The number in the address book. You’ll figure it out.”

Of course he didn’t have a mobile. Milo had yet to see evidence of any technology that had been invented after 1920. As if he sensed Milo’s thoughts, Crowley’s head moved in a gesture reminiscent of rolling eyes. “Honestly, angel, you could at least get a brick or something. I don’t want random teens calling me at all hours of the night.”

“Oh hush; it’s not as if you really need your beauty sleep.” Mr. Fell teased back. Not only did he lack a phone, but clearly he had no intentions of getting one in the near future. Crowley sighed in frustration, but it was the sigh of someone who had had this particular argument before and didn’t care much about changing the outcome. He gave up the fight and turned his inscrutable attention back to Milo.

“Oi, kid, since you’re staying, be a good one and look after my plants, too? ”

“Sure, Mr. Crowley. But, just so you know, I don’t have much of a green thumb. The last succulent I had died after three days. I didn’t even do anything to it; just _kaput_.”

“Just Crowley’s fine. And my plants shouldn’t be giving you _any trouble_.” Those last two words were shouted towards the back, where Milo knew a set of stairs led up to Mr. Fell’s flat. “They just need a bit of mist once a week. There’s a bottle under the sink you can use.”

“Alright. In that case, I think I’ve got everything. It was nice meeting you, Crowley.”

“You too. Take it easy, yeah?”

Mr. Fell reached forward to take Milo’s hand. A sense of warmth enveloped them, wrapping them up in comfort and ease. “Good luck, Milo, and try not to burn the place down. We’ll see you in six weeks. Ta!”

As the two older gentlemen, left Milo heard Crowley mutter, “That wasn’t funny, angel.”

“On the contrary, I thought it was hilarious,” Mr. Fell replied, and then the door closed behind them. Milo watched the huge, flashy black car that could only belong to Crowley drive away at a speed that seemed not only unsafe but impossible to achieve in downtown, and then they sat back and let the smell of dust and old books overwhelm them. Crowley had called Mr. Fell ‘ _angel_ ’. Milo got the sneaking feeling that Crowley was being literal, but of course that was impossible. Angels didn’t exist. If they did though, Milo thought, Mr. Fell was indeed the Guardian of Soho. 

_———————————————_

_Soho, London, 1800 A.D._

A box of chocolates lay discarded under the couch, completely decimated. An empty bottle of wine kept it company, and another one was close to joining it. 

“But Gabriel’s ssssuch a wanker!” Crowley said, his cup dangerously close to sloshing over the sides as he brandished it to make a point. “I mean honestly. A _medal_?”

Aziraphale hiccuped. “He’s de-did-dedicated. Top man. Got to give out medals to someone.”

“‘M not saying you don’t deserve it…” Crowley paused. “Actually, no I am. Angel, you-you’re brilliant, but we both know we haven’t earned half the commmdations we got. It’s all humans these days.”

“They don’t know that. Angels don’t come to-to earth anymore. Not since…not for three hundred years at least. Ac-actualy, I was surprised.”

“What? Wha-why?”

“Gabriel said he was-“ another hiccup “-getting a suit. From a tailor.”

“So?”

“Well I didn’t think he would want it. Human clothes. He’s always told me off for— for eating food and buying clothes and— and owning things. It took _months_ to get approval for the shop.”

“Well good on him then. Finally getting a bit of style. Do they still wear robes in Heaven?”

Aziraphale giggled. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know. I’m ah, a bit behind on the latest ces-celestial fashions.”

Crowley grinned. “We’ll have to fix that, won’t we? Order a catalogue. Get you an angelic tailor.”

“Maybe Gabriel could give me a reference!”

That set them both off into howls. Crowley, waving his glass wildly, tried and failed to do an imitation of Aziraphale. “Oh, Gabriel, could you introduce me to your fitter? I do like the style of your halo!”

“Oh, oh no. I never do halos. They always clash horribly with my harps.”

They went off again, doubling over on the couch. Neither of them were required to breathe and they used this to their advantage, laughing until they couldn’t anymore. Despite his lack of proper anatomy, Aziraphale found his sides aching. As the last of the chuckles played themselves out, he refilled his cup and leaned back onto the soft cushions. “As I said though, it is surprising. Perhaps Gabriel’s finally coming around to some of Earth’s-“ _hic_ “-pleasures.”

“Keep dreaming, angel. You heard what Sal-saph- ol’ Sandy said. I think he couldn’t care less about Earth, or at least the people who live here.

“Mmm,” Aziraphale said noncommittally, choosing instead to sip his wine and stare at the half-filled shelves beyond the doorway. “That was quite a close call we had today.”

Crowley shrugged. “I’ve had closer.”

“Not with Gabriel.”

“I’m not afraid of some— some jackass who gets his suits from bloody _Davidson_. Of all the tailors...”

“But you should be!” Aziraphale bit his lip and held his cup close to his chest, as if it could shield him from the archangel’s wrath. “He and Sandalphon…you remember all the things they did in the old days. You saw what remained at Sodom and Gomorrah.”

Crowley patted his knee affectionately. It did not make Aziraphale feel better. “Don’t worry. They still think we’re nem-emen-emis- still fighting each other. I made sure of that. No one even sussssspects we’re…”

Aziraphale could guess a hundred words to finish that sentence, and all of them scared the essence out of him. “Just…just promise me you’ll be careful. I…I’d be terribly bored if you left.”

“Trust me, I don’t have plans to go anywhere anytime soon.”

_St. James’ Park, England, 1862 A.D._

“I don’t need you! I have plenty of other people I can _fraternize_ with, angel!”

“Well the feeling’s mutual! Obviously!” 

Those words stuck to Crowley’s back as he stormed away, gripping his cane tightly in his leather-gloved hand. _Satan,_ Aziraphale could be a bastard sometimes. After years, no, centuries of worrying about their respective sides and what they might say if they discovered the two of them not killing each other on sight, Crowley would’ve thought he’d be thrilled at the idea of a safety net. He should’ve rejoiced, danced around, maybe thrown his hat in the air. At the very least he should’ve considered the proposal. 

There wasn’t even any risk for him. Crowley had offered to take the fall, should things go so wrong. He’d be the one murdering his fellows in cold blood. He was the one willing to fight his own kin for the sake of their friendship. And yes, if it came to that, the holy water might be turned on himself. Aziraphale, his nemesis defeated, might be sent back to a pristine desk in Heaven, maybe given a rude note if his superiors were really pissed, but that would be that. Aziraphale would get off relatively scot free, and Crowley… well, his troubles would be over too.

And yet Aziraphale had acted as though the very idea was more appalling than the five thousand years of fraternizing and subsequent punishment he faced if even one year of that history came to light. _A suicide pill_ he’d said, as if Crowley had asked him to saunter down to hell and give Beelzebub a big smacking kiss on the lips. _Fraternizing_ , as if they hadn’t spent all of human history fumbling through the steps of a dance neither of them knew and neither of them wanted to bow out of. They’d stepped on each other’s toes in the past, as they learned the tune, but each time had ended with an apology and another chance. This time, Aziraphale had taken his nice, shiny brogues and stomped right down on Crowley’s foot. 

Well, Crowley got the message alright. He understood this part of the dance loud and clear. He’d asked Aziraphale to give him his fears, and instead he’d redoubled his hold on them. And here Crowley had been playing himself the fool, thinking Aziraphale actually trusted him. Fraternizing indeed.

_———————————————_

_St. James’ Park, England, 1862 A.D._

“I don’t need you! I have plenty of other people I can _fraternize_ with, angel!”

“Well the feeling’s mutual! Obviously!” 

Aziraphale jammed his hat back on his head and walked away as quickly as he could without breaking into a run. He feared that if he faltered, his traitorous body would turn him around and take him straight back to Crowley, and then words would come tumbling out; an apology, a declaration that he cared too much about Crowley to give him anything so dangerous, that even the thought of losing him made his hands shake. But of course those words were the precise reason why he couldn’t turn around. Crowley wasn’t the only one worried about divine (or demonic) wrath. If Heaven knew how Aziraphale had been spending his time on earth…the punishments didn’t bear thinking about. Certainly more than rude notes and a light slap on the wrist.

If only Crowley could see that this was the best thing for both of them. Keep their distance, keep to fraternizing and nothing more, and watch their steps carefully. Aziraphale had no desire to end the dance they did, but they had to keep each other at arm’s length. One wrong step could mean destruction for both of them. 

That was why he’d rejected the holy water so strongly; giving it to Crowley would mean giving him so much more that he couldn’t afford to give. It was why Aziraphale forced himself to keep putting one foot in front of the other, even as he took of his hat once again and worried the brim in his hands. Crowley would come around, of course. He always did. And if these fights granted them one thing, it was the ability to step back from each other. Aziraphale would never intentionally hurt Crowley. In fact he’d do anything to keep him safe and happy. But these arguments that cropped over the years over this and that had woven themselves into the dance. They allowed space to build up between them, and as the space built up, the feelings subsided into something more manageable. In that way, Aziraphale was grateful Crowley had brought up such an unthinkable idea as holy water. They disagreed, they would take space, and time, and when they came back together Aziraphale would apologize as best he could without betraying himself. It was best for both of them.

That’s what Aziraphale told himself as he walked back to his shop, but in all honesty, he did a very poor job of convincing himself .

_———————————————_

_Soho, England, 1967 A.D._

Contrary to popular appearances, the bookshop wasn’t only for show. Most customers wandered in under the impression that things there were for sale, but selling books— or rather, preventing the sale of books— was only part of the shop’s function. Only a few decades after he’d opened, Aziraphale had discovered that the academic community found great value in translators, especially those who specialized in long-dead languages. Thus, on the occasions when the shop was closed and Crowley was nowhere to be found, Aziraphale plunged into half-remembered Sumerian and textbooks of Ancient Greek. The work was hard, and satisfying when he completed it. Almost more so than the work he was supposed to be doing.

Spectacles perched on the end of his nose, Aziraphale went back over the Old Chinese characters for a fifth time. He could’ve sworn the grammatical structure was different than he remembered, and some of the characters were just on the tip of his tongue.

The back of his mind registered the bell ringing, and he automatically called, “Sorry, but the shop’s closed for the evening. Come back tomorrow.”

“I’m not here for books, Aziraphale,” said a voice right next to his ear. Aziraphale nearly jumped out of his skin, glasses falling askew. Aziraphale placed them on his desk and put all his effort into keeping his hand steady.

“Ah. Gabriel. What a surprise. I’m not due for a millennial report for another thirty-seven years.”

“I’m not here for a report.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale worked to keep his face neutral. “Perhaps you’d care to join me for a sherry, then? I would love to catch up on all the latest from Heaven.” 

“This isn’t a social call, either.”

“Then what—“

“There’s a demon in London, Aziraphale. Has been for some time.”

“Really?” Somehow Aziraphale managed to look surprised. “I haven’t encountered any demons, but I’ll be sure to keep an eye out. Thank you for the notice, Gabriel. Now if there’s anything else—“

“Aziraphale.” Gabriel didn’t raise his voice at all, but the sharp crack of his name was enough to make Aziraphale go stiff. “I don’t expect you to go after this one. With all due respect, I just don’t think you’d be able to handle it.”

“Well, then, I’m not sure why you’ve taken the time to visit me in person. Surely a notice would have sufficed.”

“I came, Aziraphale, to make sure you weren’t getting in over your head.” A chill ran down Aziraphale’s spine. It sounded like he meant— but surely he couldn’t know. There was no way he could know. They’d been careful, discreet. Aside from their one argument about precautions, Crowley had made no mention of anything being wrong. And surely if Heaven knew, Aziraphale wouldn’t be sitting there trying very hard to pretend that everything was tickety-boo, thank you very much.

“In over my head? I’m not sure I follow.”

“I’m sure you don’t. Just know that we’ll be keeping an eye on you to make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale swallowed and summed his best absent smile. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

“Just don’t slip up, Aziraphale. We’re running low on second chances.” A car’s headlights glared through the window and when it had passed, Gabriel was gone. The only thing that remained of him was the smell of marble and a cold fear in Aziraphale’s chest. Gabriel knew, somehow, or suspected, or even if he didn’t, Aziraphale couldn’t pretend any longer that it would be fine if he just ignored everything to the contrary. Before he could change his mind, he summoned a thermos into his shaking hands and began to fill it with water.

_———————————————_

_London, Soho, 1861 A.D._

The streets of London were quiet at night, though not entirely silent. Conversations and laughter drifted from pubs and inns, music from theaters and concert halls. The occasional lonely carriage followed the sound of hooves against cobblestone, adding a rhythm to the opera of nightlife. The streets weren’t quite empty either; the occasional party-goer, fashionably late or sent home early and drunk. Street sweepers, taking advantage of the light traffic. Light-men, ensuring the lamps guiding the streets stayed lit. And a demon, not lurking but on his way home from another day’s work well done. The tap of his cane— black, with a silver snake head, custom made— was the only thing to give away his position. 

The tap paused at the mouth to a dark alley, where something not quite human took in the lights from the street and gave it back with a haunting quality. “Crowley,” the figure hissed. “I need to speak with you.”

Crowley didn’t move. “Dagon? Is that you? What the bloody hell are you doing up here?”

“I could ask you the same question, Crowley.”

“What do you mean? I _live_ here.”

“You’ve been slacking off. Fewer temptations, fewer evil deeds. You haven’t even left England since you returned from the American Colonies.”

“Well. I like it here. And anyway, I thought Beelzebub was happy with my reports.”

“That’s _Lord_ Beelzebub to you, _Crawly_. And she’s the one who’s sent me.”

Crowley scoffed. “What, you couldn’t send a note? Look, if you want me to go abroad, I can, it’s just that—“

“Silence! This is not a matter of reports. There are rumors that the Principality Aziraphale has also taken up residence in London. Quite close to here, in fact.”

Crowley was careful to keep his face still, betraying nothing. “I’m aware. In fact, that’s the reason I haven’t left. If I let him get a foothold here, he could have the whole of the United Kingdom in a century or more. He’s close to giving up, I think, but I don’t want to leave until I’m sure we have the upper hand.”

“If that’s true, why haven’t you mentioned it in any of your reports? Not a single sign of the angel in any of them, not since the 15th century. For that matter, why haven’t you defeated him yet?”

“He’s clever. Almost as clever as I am, and a hard worker to boot. I didn’t mention it because I thought after 6000 years it would be obvious.”

“Oh, something’s obvious alright.” Dagon pointed a scaly finger at him, emerging from the shadows like an eel from its den. “You’re up to something. I don’t know what you’re hiding, Crowley, but if I find a single temptation out of place I will make sure you regret it. Understand?”

“Perfectly, Lord Dagon.” Crowley raised his cane to the brim of his hat in salute. Dagon’s pale face retreated back into the shadows until the demon's gleaming eyes became a mere reflection of the lamplight. Crowley waited until Dagon had left, then continued on his way home, never hurrying, never once varying from the steady tap of his cane against the cobblestones. Only once he was inside, away from prying eyes and too-deep shadows, did panic manifest on his face.

“Fuck.”

_———————————————_

_Sometime in the Future_

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” Aziraphale asked from his post at stove. Something bubbled delightfully in a pot, filling the room with warmth and the smell of home.

Crowley shrugged. “Sure, I’d love to.” He watched his angel cut the last of the vegetables, quickly and methodically. Every movement was precise and full of nerves.

Aziraphale looked as if he wanted to ask something else, then thought better of it, then thought again. “Would you…would you like to stay forever?”

“You...I...what?”

“No, you’re right, I was being foolish. You’ve got your own place and I’ve got mine. I’m sorry. Forget I said anything.”

In three smooth strides Crowley was out of the armchair and at Aziraphale’s side. His hands were worrying again, as they always did. And that was exactly why he had to do this right. “Angel,” he breathed. He lay one hand on the working fingers. The other found its way into the bright curls of his angel’s hair. “If you asked, I’d spend the rest of eternity with you.”

Finally, _finally_ , Aziraphale looked at him. His blue eyes searched Crowley’s face, full of fear and hope and love. He’d never looked more human than he did at that moment, and Crowley loved him all the more for it. “Then please,” Aziraphale asked in a voice like the whisper of a page turning. “Stay with me.”

“For as long as you like. Forever.” 

Aziraphale broke into a smile that shone brighter than every star that had ever touched Crowley’s hands. He could never hope to match that light, but he tried anyway. His hand curled in Aziraphale’s hair. And then Aziraphale’s hands were grabbing his collar, pulling him in. They met, two stars colliding, exploding like supernovas into each other. Crowley had thought he’d crafted the last of his interstellar jewels long ago, but there was another forming right between his fingers. It was burning under him, and he never wanted to let go.

Finally Crowley pulled back. Something stirred inside his chest; it had been growing for a while now, unnoticeably changing, like the stars themselves. It didn’t seem different from the day before, but suddenly he looked at it and realized it was something entirely new and ancient and terrifying and wonderful. That four letter word he could never bring himself to even think about thinking. And now it shone out of him and reflected itself in Aziraphale’s sky blue eyes.

“You’ve made a grave mistake, angel. You’ll never be rid of me now.”

“All the better for it.”

Crowley laughed and pulled Aziraphale back into him. Outside, on the carefully tended flower box, a bird perched and started to sing. It wasn’t a Nightingale, and they were nowhere near Berkeley Square, but the song was beautiful all the same.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a long ass fic and thus takes a long ass time to edit. As such, I'll be doing so continuously. Please bear with me while I sort out the kinks and, in the meantime, I hope you enjoyed it!


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